


Au Yeah August - In Which Miss Rides... Writes Again

by Anon_E_Miss



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Abuse, Abuse of Power, Assorted Crap, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Childbirth, Forced Abortion, Implied Child Death, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Mech Preg, Mind the Tags, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Warnings to come as the muse forgets her decency, au yeah august
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2020-07-29 04:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 34
Words: 97,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20075950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: A collection of AUs for the month of August. Let's see if I can get through them all.NEW WARNINGS ADDED FOR CHAPTER 12. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.





	1. Blackmail

“Commander Jazz?” Jazz turned at the sound of the monotone. No one used his rank, no one but the SIC.

“What can I do for ya?” He asked. His optics fell on the datapad in the Praxian’s servos, and he chuckled. “I frag up so bad ya wanna supervise me revisin’ the report?”

“This is not a report,” Prowl said, he folded it back against his frame. The gesture was subtle, and perhaps totally innocent but it caught the saboteur’s attention. “I was hoping you might be able to help me on a personal matter?”

“Depends what it is,” the Polihexian replied. Though he was something of the unofficial moral officer, along with the Head of Special Ops and the Prime’s left servo, he made it a rule not to play about with other mechanisms relationships, too often they blew up, and he did not want to be in the line of fire.

“I am being blackmailed,” the SIC explained. “It was my hope you might be able to identify the culprit so I can settle it.”

“What could anyone possibly blackmail ya wit?” Jazz cackled, and he leaned back in his chair. “Yer as straight laced as it gets.”

“I danced to fund my education,” Prowl said with that same monotone he always used. As if they were discussing the weather. However bland his voice, his doorwings told a different story, Jazz had never seen them flit about this much. “At a stripbotics club.”

“Ya ain’t jokin’,” the saboteur replied, after a full klik’s pause. He felt as if his logic processor was going to lock up, as the tactician’s so often did. Every last trace of humour faded, and he straightened in his chair. “‘Cause ya don’t joke. Have a seat, mech.”

“Thank you,” the Praxian said, and he sat, ramrod straight, because of course he would not relax, probably could not given the circumstances. “I was a foundling. Due the funding cuts by the lord of that time, there was only the smallest bursary available to me, meant to fund a training certificate in the service field. I did a certificate but the wage was such I could not hope to use it to pay for my housing, fuel, and a broader education. I saw an advertisement for a club, and applied. The starting wage was twice what my certificate afforded me. In reality, after tips and incidentals the pay was five times what I earned in the office. I danced up until I graduated and received my first Enforcer posting.”

“Nothin’ illegal ‘bout it,” Jazz offered the mech an easy smile. “But I understand why ya’d worry it.”

He could not imagine this mech dancing the most mechanical two step, and yet if what he said was anything to go by, Prowl must have been a damn good performer to earn those kinds of shanix. That or had done some side work, the kind that would nuke the SIC’s career even faster than if glyph got out that he had been a stripbot. Jazz waited. Prowl did not immediately hand him the datapd, the Polihexian supposed he would have preferred to handle it himself, but obviously he had run into some resistance. What did the tactician mean by settle it? Surely he would not murder the blackmailer, and if the aft was a Bot, it would be a breech of regulations for him to even handle the disciplinary hearing considering he was the victim of the scam. Did he plan to pay the fragger off? Did he want to conjure up some blackmail of his own? There was no doubt the tactician was a schemer of the highest order, it was what Prowl staked his and all their lives on, it was what Jazz respected him for. How did he intend to handle this.

“What do ya wanna do once I get ya a designation?” Jazz asked.

“If the mechanism is an Autobot, I will petition they are dishonourably discharged,” Prowl replied, it was a fair enough answer. “If it is a Decepticon, I will endeavour to make life very difficult for them going forward.”

“What’re they askin’ for?” The TIC asked.

“For me to leave Iacon,” the Praxian replied. “I would not pay if shanix were what they demanded, I am perfectly aware how blackmailers work. I will not leave my post, and thus Iacon. I believe I might just ignore the message if it were shanix...”

“But tellin’ ya to leave Iacon’s a bit more suspicious,” Jazz’s own suspicious were flared. “Can I see it?”

Doorwings dipping in what could only have been a wince, Prowl pushed the datapad across the saboteur’s desk. Jazz fully intended to scroll passed any pictures or videos, and to just read the demand, but when he swiped a digit across the darken screen to wake it back up, an image filled the screen, the angry, bold glyphs written immediately over what could only have been a memory clip pulled up from someone’s memory banks. This was much more personal than he had expected. The image on the screen was not obviously Prowl, the Praxian’s back was arched, his bared chassis and glowing spark angled up to the ceiling, the sheer armour of his pelvic segment was only barely opaque enough to hide his array. From what Jazz could see, this mech’s armour was largely blue, but if Prowl said it was him, than it was.

_ **Leave Iacon. You have an orn. To show you how serious I am, I have released this image to the datanet. If you are not gone in an orn, the next one will have your face.** _

“I trust I can count on your discretion?” Prowl asked.

“I’ll handle it personally,” the Polihexian promised. “Ya got nothin’ to be ashamed of, ya know. I played in places like that. A gigs, a gig.”

“I am not ashamed,” the tactician said, doorwings flicking back up, strong and straight off his back. There was a glint in his cool optics, Jazz smiled at the clear defiance in the Praxian’s optics. “I made myself what I am. I built myself up from nothing. I will not have everything I have worked for destroyed because of senatorial prude has a fit of vapours over a little exposed plating.”


	2. Atlantis

Before the Golden Age, the fabled city of Doradus disappeared into the see off the coast of Polihex. History has forgotten why and how, and for millennia it was believed to have been just a sparkling’s tale, but during a survey of the disputed province, Autobots found not just the ruins of the lost city, but a thriving society, hidden far beneath the waves of the Rust Sea. Given the technology the city was reputed to possess before the collapse, Autobot Command declared it vital to make an alliance with these mechanism, both the further the Cause, but also to keep their knowledge from falling into the servos of the Decepticons at Darkmount. An envoy made up of the leading ambassadors, politicians and officers of Iacon and the Autobots was dispatched to open talks with these… mermechs. Prowl, the Prime’s Second, and the army’s principle tactician was amongst those sent to the meeting beneath the sea.

He did not understand why the Prime had assigned him to this. No, that was not true, he understood. Zeta Prime was your classical autocrat, and he heavily favoured nepotism, as descendant, Prowl owed his rank all but entirely due to sharing the mech’s sparkline. It made him universally loathed by both the army at large and the officers in particular. The Senate was also not pleased to have so you, and in experienced (or so they said) holding so high a post. Prowl was the youngest mechanism to hold his rank, and no one believed he had earned it, not even the young tactician. Even the Prime, his grand-progenitor, knew there were better mechanisms, more deserving mechanisms, but he had not wanted an experienced general or senator as his second, they could be willful. No, he wanted someone who could never go a mega-cycle without knowing how much a dead he owed, and that was Prowl.

The Praxian was deeply uncomfortable hovering here under the water. It was not so much the depth, or the darkness, Doradus glittered like crystal prism, though Prowl could not fathom how it could be lit up like this. It was the sensation of the sea energon that made him uneasy. His sensors were not equipped to process the stimulus, and he was rendered largely blind. For a Praxian, the tactician had good vision, but compared to most of the envoys around him, his optical vision was poor. When it came to sensors, there was give or take, for his processor to be able to process the sensory feed back from his doorwings, his audials, his olfactory ridge, his optics, his proto-plating, there had to be some give, and like most Praxians, his optics were severely nearsighted. On the surface, he never noticed this, but with his doorwings more or less blinded, he felt terribly vulnerable, and this was not something he could confess to these mechanisms. Prowl knew he was being tested, and he held on to the dive propulsion unit he had been given in order to make the journey from the submersible, and stared dead ahead.

From the silken shadows, the tactician watched blurry figures emerge from the sealed archway that protected Doradus for the mechanimals and menaces of the sea. Strange, though they were a blur, Prowl could see there were thirteen of these merformers, precisely the same number as there were envoys in the Praxian’s party. Perhaps it was a coincidence, but the realization made Prowl uneasy. The strange mechs, although the Autobots must have been strange to these… were they beastformers? Did they have alt modes? Distracted by these questions, he missed the beginning of the greeting party’s address. Quickly, his processor snapped back into focus. They were a dazzling array of colours, the light of their city glinted off their plating, making them almost appear to glow.

“Welcome, mechanisms ‘o the Prime,” the center mech declared. “Please leave yer machines behind ‘n accept our gift.”

Confused, Prowl risked a glance to Senator Decimus, the leader of their retinue. All he could make out was a smirk on the mech’s lipplates, and he felt an all encompassing sense of foreboding. Leaving his DPU, with considerable regret, the Praxian swam forward. His companions did not cut gracefully through the rust energon, but Prowl’s doorwings dragged through the amber liquid, and he was last to reach the mermechs, by a several strokes. He did not size, could not in this muck. His vents were sealed to keep the sea energon out, to stop his intakes from becoming contaminated. Decimus’ smirk might have been even wider, and his was not the only one, Prowl narrowed his optics, and watched the others, they were up to something. Doradus’ speaker raised his servos, and his companions swam forward, and then he too swam towards the Prime’s emissaries, stopping in front of Decimus. Again, the Praxian frowned. He heard a rich chuckle and turned his helm. This close, he could make out the features of the mermech’s face. His helm was black, with audial horns protruding from the top of his helm. A visor of clear blue covered his optics, but they must have been laughing at him, his full mouth was smiling. The mermech reached for him cupped his shoulders, pulled him forward and kissed him.

It came as no shock to anyone that Prowl crashed then and there.

  



	3. Dystopia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This continues Atlantis.

Prowl was sluggish when he became aware again, crashes always muddied his processor, and left his frame stiff and sore. For a few klik he laid where he was and tried to remember what had triggered this episode. He avoided situations and mechanisms that had made him crash in the past, hoping to avoid crashing again. Unfortunately it had long appeared that anything and everything could trigger his glitch. There was nothing he could do about it, he had a glitch, he had always had a glitch, but when he saw his grand-progenitor have these episodes the tactician always felt himself shrinking under the Prime’s withering gaze. The crashes reminded the elder Praxian of the taint that could never been purged from his sparkline. It had Prowl’s originator before him that had a processor defect, had Zeta known, he never would have approved of the bonding, but then his creation, Prowl’s progenitor had not asked for his opinion.

After Zeta, than Major, not Prime, had kindled a sparkling with his Conjunx Endura, he had left to Iacon to make his designation and to rise to power he could not find in Praxus. By the time he would return, his Conjunx was long dead, Downshift, his creation too. There was on Prowl. Zeta had left him there, paid for him to attend the best boarding school. He had left him there to make his own life, and the younger Praxian had served in the Enforcers for vorns without much thought being given to his grand-progenitor. Even as the rest of Cybertron had descended into chaos, Prowl had not often though of Zeta, never really concerning himself with the mech’s fate. As his grand-progenitor had cared so little for his family, Prowl had cared very little for him. But upon the death of Sentinel Prime, and Zeta’s ascension to Primacy, the first ever Praxian Prime had enlisted his grand-creation to be his Second. He had sold the idea on his grand-creation by telling him of his great plans to end Functionalism, and end corruption in the Senate. They were goals the tactician could rise to himself, and he had followed his grand-progenitor back to Iacon. It had made a mistake.

In Functionalism, horrid caste system that it was, no ones single mechanism reigned unchallenged. The best, brightest and richest ruled together, all with their own goals, but tempered by the resistance of each other. While Zeta Prime had sent his apprentice, Orion, to do crack down on the corrupt senators, he had set his descendant to work searching out those responsible for Sentinel’s assassination, and the growing threat of the Decepticon rebellion. Prowl had reasoned to himself that public safety was of the utmost concern, his peaceful homestate was in danger, and he had done his duty, and uncovered the plots, and identified the moles, and he had thought they had been brought to trial, and detained, as the law would call. That was, earlier in the orn when he had uncovered to existence of the New Institute. Now he had no idea what to do. His transport off planet, when he had made an attempt to keep to the Neutrality his society so believed it, it had been shot down in the Manganese Mountains. Zeta Prime had blamed the Decepticons... but his grand creation was beginning to question everything.

Where was he? Prowl onlined his optics and stared up at the strange ceiling. It was covered in a mural. Tiles of smooth, coloured crystal formed an image, was it crystal coral, or the dark-cycle sky? It occurred to him, as his processor came fully online that he was dry. At first he thought they must have evacuated him to the submersible but of course this was not so. There were no murals on the sub, it was uniformly taupe, and gunmetal. Alarm intermingled with confusion. No clinic or medicine would have a ceiling like this. There were the soft cords of music being strum somewhere beyond this room. He sat up, and looked around, a chime sounded, and he could not see from where. Immediately Prowl became alarmed. The pictures on the walls, the chest, the shelves of kitsch and datapads, this was no hotel room either, this was someone’s berthroom. What was he doing here!?

“Ya come ‘round, good,” a bipedal form stepped into the doorway. Prowl could not be certain at this distance but it looked like the same mech that had kissed him, and the Praxian tensed that much further. Had he been traded in some sort of bonding alliance? He would not put it passed Zeta.

“Who are you?” Prowl asked, his voice coming out raspier and harsher than he liked. He had schooled himself for vorns to speak without inflection, including with his doorwings, so no one could guess what he was truly thinking or feeling. It was the only way to survive his grand-progenitor and those senators.

“They call me Jazz,” the mech, a Polihexian, Prowl realized as he came closer. His voice was deep, and his accent was reminiscent to that of Doradus’ speaker. These observations only made him more confused. What was he doing here? Why was he in this mech’s berth!? “Easy, easy. Didn’t care for how those slagtards treated ya, so I took ya home, make sure ya were safe.”

“You took me home,” the tactician echoed. “You took me home?!”

“They been left in a hotel ‘til the sub comes back,” Jazz explained, without answering Prowl’s question at all. “We take care o’ our own here, treated one o’ yer number like they did ya, don’t fly wit us. ‘Fraid to say ya trip was for nothin’.”

“You took me home,” Prowl said again. His... kidnapper... caretaker... had a rich laugh.

“Couldn’t leave ya wit them, obvious they couldn’t be trusted,” the monochrome mech expained.

“They would not seriously harm me,” the Praxian replied.

“They didn’t tell ya ‘bout the gift, the Kiss,” Jazz said. “They set ya up. Ya were hurt, it coulda been worse. Ya don’t wanna get knocked senseless out there, current was kickin’ up, ‘n warwhales ‘n Sharkticon can come ‘round outta nowhere. It was lucky I kept my servos on ya.”

“You kissed me.”

“I gave ya the _Kiss_,” the Polihexian... the mermech currently standing on two legs, corrected him. “It’s a gift ‘n greetin’ lettin’ ya move free in our home. We share nanites that let ya intakes filter the rust energon.”

“They all knew?” Prowl asked.

“Yeah.”

“They wanted me to crash,” the tactician could not help but sigh. “To make me look weak and unstable.”

“Made them look callous ‘n cruel,” Jazz replied. “We won’t be makin’ any deals with the Prime if those are his best representatives he has to offer. Would ya say they’re ‘bout the norm?”

“Some are worse.”

He should have lied. Absolutely, and without question he should have lied, but Prowl spoke the truth. Senator Decimus could explain why he had lost the alliance at first meeting. Naturally, Zeta Prime would put significant blame on his grand-creation, but he was not truly a fool. Playing this game off “trigger the glitch” had finally proven expensive to someone other than Prowl. Still, he was uneasy being separated from the others. Did this mech intend to keep him until the submersible returned? Surely Jazz did not intend to share the berth. Fair, he was a handsome mech, but the Praxian did not make a habit of interfacing strange mech, at least not anymore. Prior to his grand-progenitor’s return, the tactician, then Enforcer, had carried on an affair here and there, never anything particularly serious. Interface was an efficient way of purging built up stress from his systems, and while his personality was off putting, Prowl had never struggled to find a lover when he had want of one, to a Praxian at least, he had good looks.

“I’d thought ya’d try convincin’ me they ain’t all bad,” Jazz said. He sat down at the end of the berth. Thank Primus he did not try to touch Prowl.

“If you were to make an alliance with Zeta Prime and the Autobots you would be entering a war,” Prowl replied. “My own framekin are Neutral... I tried to leave myself.”

“What happened?”

“The shuttle crashed. I was one of the fortunate who survived. After the crash, travel off world became restricted. I have not been able to board another flight.”

“We don’t got shuttles here,” the mermech said. “But we got ways. After yer sub’s been ‘n gone, Doradus’ll move on. Yer war won’t be our problem. Ya up for movin’?”

“I am fine,” Prowl replied.

“Then get on up, ‘n I’ll take ya out to see some sights,” Jazz declared, and he hopped quickly to his peds, the tactician was slower to stand. His host extended his servo, and smiled, not mockingly at all. Prowl, melted, and took his servo, after all, what was the worst the could happen?


	4. Cave In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my birthday, I gave myself my favourite trope.
> 
> This continues Atlantis, and Dystopia.

These Polihexians, the mermechs shared ancestry with those mechs living in the Waste, did not simply live under the sea, recharging in shells of giant beastformers, or in tight caves, as he might have imagined. Instead their city was a blend of open sea, and air tight sanctuaries. Prowl might have been happy to remain in the cozy his host had brought him into where his doorwings sensor let him truly see. At the same time, he felt an internal pressure to get out as much as he could, even if it meant being blind. Jazz always led him by the servo, and it should have been infantilizing, but with this mech it felt like a courtesy. With the mermech as his guide, the tactician saw the opera house, the amphitheatre where the Lord and Assembly, and any other’s wishing to, gave public speeches. They toured a massive garden of crystal coral, and listened to a concert play. The way the music carried on the current, and brushed over his muddled doorwings was oddly pleasant. He felt like a tourist, though he was supposed to be working. Prowl did not intent to use this private, personal tour to change the mermech’s processor, instead the Praxian hoped he could come away with some argument to offer Zeta to convince him to leave well enough alone.

  


It was terribly inappropriate to spend so much time alone with a stranger he was not courting, or being courted by, at least according to his grand-progenitor’s moral code. Prowl could hardly have been said to have lived by it prior to their reunion, and he lived by in now only by necessity. But he heard Zeta Prime’s voice in his helm, and he could not help but to look around to make sure none of the other envoys had born witness to his outings with Jazz. Of course, they could not and would not, they remained in the hotel, and Prowl did not join them. Let them think he was being cared for by medic, let them think what they would, let them worry about their fates if he did come to some ill, because though his grand-progenitor had no love for him, Prowl was his possession, and Zeta would be wrathful, if only out of principle. Let them spend this orn in worry. Let them understand a fraction of the stress he lived under every mega-cycle of his life.

  


This mega-cycle, the fifth since his arrival, Jazz led him from his habsuite, and into the long, and empty hall. They were going a different way than they had before, down a maze of corridors, stairs winding lower and lower. Prowl was not afraid. Had the mermech harboured any ill will or any illicit intentions, he had had many opportunities, and many advantages. The Praxian recharged in his berth, because he only had the one berth, and he had taken charge of Prowl’s safety during his stay. But Jazz did not recharge in the berth with him, instead he recharge on the couch in the next room. He was the gracious, and courteous, and beautiful and the tactician was a little in love with him. What did that say for all his past dalliances, that kindness, and courtesy were all that was necessary to make Prowl’s spark drop to his peds?

  


Jazz led him into a pressurization chamber, similar, though smaller, than the one they had been using all orn long. Prowl suppressed a shiver as the chamber sealed and the rust sea slowly leaked in. He would never get used to this, he thought. There were no settings he could use on his doorwings that would let him see without leaving him with sensory burn or horribly aroused. Still, he did not cringe when the rust energon covered his vents, and his doorwings. The Polihexian/mermech held his servos, and stroked stroked his palms with his thumbs. Of course he knew how this made Prowl feel, the tactician had told him he was all but blind out there in the open sea, and he had made sure to never let the Praxian get beyond his reach, without being oppressive about it. Normally, Prowl thought he would have recoiled from such attention, from anyone thinking he needed looking after, but he was blind in out in the current, and while he could have insisted on remaining indoors, the tactician was a curious mech, and there was so much to see here in Doradus, even if much of it was just a blur.

  


“Where are we going?” He asked as Jazz let him out into the open, rather than into the city, they appeared to be heading out into the wild.

  


“We got hundred of caves between us 'n the mainland,” Jazz explained. “They’re somethin’ special. I packed fuel so we can stay out long as we like.”

  


“Will you miss them when you move on?”

  


“Doradus’ moved five times since I emerged. There’s always somethin’ new to explore.”

  


It would have taken the mermech no time at all to swim the distance to the cave, had he not been hampered by Prowl. All the same, the Praxian did not feel guilty, this was an adventure, one Jazz appeared excited to take him on. Prowl had never had the opportunity to explore the lakes and forests around Petrex, the city he had spent most of his life. Though his progenitor had emerged in Sistex as his progenitor had before him, Downshift had relocated to Petrex well before Prowl ever emerged. He and Camshaft, the tactician’s originator, had preferred the city to the wilds, and Prowl had only driven through what wilderness Praxus had left. Though he was more or less blind, swimming alongside the mermech, the tactician felt strangely free.

  


Prowl had been hesitant to enter that first cave, but it was not pitch black or terrifyingly tight. Crystal outcrops covered the ceiling, and cyberfish of every colour swam around them. It was like entering another dimension. Jazz hummed, a sound so low, Prowl felt it more than he heard it, and he shivered as his sensors picked up the vibrations. As he shivered, and his host hummed, the crystals changed colour. As he changed his pitch, they changed again, and the Praxian was struck silent at the beauty, both of the song and the sight. The mermech’s song did something to Prowl’s frame and his vents flared, taking the rust energon into his intakes to cool his frame. He shied, embarrassed by his physiological reaction, but enraptured by Jazz’s displayed, the tactician did not go far, all he could truly do is pull his plating tight and recover his self control. For a moment Prowl was successful, but then Jazz turned to him, humming at three hertz, the crystals behind the Praxian lit up in brightest and lightest blue and Prowl shuddered, and not with pain. The humming stopped mid note.

  


“Y’aight?” Jazz asked, reaching for him, the tactician recoiled.

  


“I have highly sensitive sensors,” Prowl explained, embarrassed by his lack of control. He felt like a youngling with his interface protocols newly online.

  


“Did I hurt ya?”

  


“No.”

  


“Oh... Ohhhh.”

  


The Praxian could not look at his host, he was utterly humiliated. It was worse than crashing. Thankfully, shame quickly cooled his frame, and when Jazz reached out for him, his plating was not scalding. Still, Prowl kept his optics downcast. He felt gawky and stupid. Bad enough to be infatuated by the mech, he had to rev up like a buymecha in an alleyway. Some of his shame must have leaked into his field, despite his attempts to keep it mute, and Jazz twisted in the water, looking up at Prowl’s downcast face, and smoothing a servo over his cheek. Somehow, it only made the tactician feel worse, and he looked away again.

  


“I didn’t know,” Jazz said, apologetically. “‘M sorry. Nothin’, to be ashamed off, Prowler... They tell stories ‘bout what our voices can do, I thought they were just sparklin’ tales. Don’t gotta look away.”

  


“I am supposed to have more self control,” Prowl grimaced as he spoke, hearing his grand-progenitor hissing in his audials.

  


“Sometimes self-control’s overrated,” the mermech said. “Did ya like it.”

  


“Yes.”

  


“I liked singin’ for ya,” Jazz confessed and Prowl finally met his optics. “Ya looked so beautiful when ya listened. No doubt. No fear.”

  


It had been elating to let go. Unable to ask, afraid, it took him a klik to speak: “I would listen if you sang again.”

  


Jazz’s smile grew, and he grinned, showing off two rows of sharp denta, they did not scare Prowl. The mermech looped his arm around the tactician’s back and pulled him in. With his free servo, he took Prowl’s in his, and they turned together in a slow roll. It was something like a dance, it was a dance, and as they spun in the energon, Jazz sang, and set Prowl’s circuits on fire. It was not accidental, his host sang with a purpose, the notes so low the Praxian felt them in his spark. He curled the digits of his free servo in the mermech’s shoulder and let his helm drop back as his vents flared. Taking advantage, Jazz curled into him and sang into his neck. Prowl felt the vibration in his every circuit, his doorwings tingled. It felt good. His charge soared, and Jazz spun him in his ams so his face was buried between the tactician’s shoulders. When he hummed again, Prowl came undone.

  


Still, his charge remained high, and as the Praxian gave a muffled cry with his overload, Jazz ran his servos down his front, cupping his bumper, scrapping his claws against Prowl’s headlights. He was going to overload again, and he did not find it in himself to feel ashamed. Instead, Prowl was a glutton, and he moaned, arching his frame into his lover’s embrace, glyphlessly begging for more. As the mermech hummed into his neck, the tactician shuddered. With the hum against his plating, and the servo on his bumper, Prowl thought he was losing his mind to pleasure that tingled in his smallest struts. Then Jazz slid his servo over his array, and the Praxian realized it was bare, for how long? Who knew.

  


“Please,” he moaned as Jazz asked for permission.

  


Long, elegant digits breached him easily, his valve was subtle and slick. Prowl was very quickly losing his higher faculties. Now when Jazz sang, it was not a song, but his praises. He praised the Praxian’s beauty, his responsiveness, his processor. The praise, not just the power behind the pitch, but the praise itself made Prowl clutch his valve over the digits filling him, stretching him slowly, and then more urgently. His spark sang as his lover’s voice took on a raspier edge, still singing his praises. Before he could overload on those digits, Jazz slipped them free, and the tactician moaned at the loss. He was not empty long. Gently, the mermech spun his around again, and as Prowl hooked his ankles around his smaller lover’s back, Jazz cupped his aft, and pulled him onto his spike. That was all it took to see the Praxian overload again. It was different, so different from any spike he had taken. Long, and smooth, it seemed to writhe in him as his valve rippled around it. The mermech gently rocked them together, prehensile spike reaching every node, reaching the greatest depths of the Praxian’s core. Never taking his optics off Prowl’s face, Jazz made slow and gentle love to him. That was all that this could be. Sharp digits scrapped lightly over his back and his doorwings, and back to his aft, and Prowl keened. When his lover spilled in him the transfluids were thick, and as they surged against the tactician’s nodes, he overloaded a final time.

  


Blissfully strutless, Prowl was content to rest in Jazz’s embrace as their frames slowly returned to normal function. As a rule, he had always enjoyed interfacing, and he had never accepted a lover who could not put the effort into making him overload, even if that meant teaching them how. The mermech had played his frame like a harp, and only taken his pleasure after he had brought the Praxian to overload a half dozen times. Strung out as he felt, Prowl stirred enough to kiss Jazz, gratitude making the afterglow a little warmer. Jazz returned the kiss, letting the tactician deepen at his own pace. As the tasted each other, the spike still filling him stirred. Though his nodes were still sensitized, Prowl flexed his valve around it, experimentally at first, and then with purpose, caressing it until it came back to full pressurization within him, Jazz moaned into his mouth. Rocking his hips, the Praxian set the pace, starting off slow, and growing more frantic, as the hyper sensitive state of his nodes brought the pleasure to the cusp of pain, which only made his charge soar higher. With one deep thrust, Jazz breached Prowl’s cervical valve and the tactician screamed as he experienced the hardest overload of his life. When he came rebooted merely nanokliks after his processor fritzed, Prowl felt a torrent of heavy transfluids pumping directly into gestation tank. It did not worry him, Praxians could only kindle in the briefest of procreo-cycles, and this was not his time.

  


“Pretty sure ‘m in the Well, ‘cause I think ya killed me,” Jazz groaned into his neck. Prowl smiled and then laughed.

  


“That was incredible,” he agreed.

  


“Late to head back to Doradus,” the mermech said. “There’s a cave nearby, we can fuel, ‘n rest a while.”

  


“Lead on.”

  


Prowl took a slow vent as Jazz withdrew from his depths. It surprised him how little transfluids leaked from his valve. His midsection felt, not precisely heavy, but perhaps that was the best way to describe it. He felt as if every drop of his lover’s fluids were trapped up inside his tank. Strangely, the Praxian decided he liked the feeling. Though he was tender, just the right side of raw, Prowl did not struggle to swim. This time, as the mermech guided him through the open sea, the tactician was not nervous or wary, he felt completely safe in this mech’s servos. They reached the shattered edge of the continent, where Doradus had once sat. Jazz led him into the darkness, there were no crystals lighting the passage, but here on land, Prowl did not fear the dark, as he stretched out his doorwings, he saw just fine. Slowly the passage seemed to lead them up, until finally, they, or Prowl at least could stand with his helm above the water. With a little stretch, the mermech transformed, his tail splitting into to legs.

  


“The mouth ‘bove ground collapsed eons ago, before Doradus dove into the sea,” Jazz explained.

  


“You speak of your city like a mechanism,” Prowl said.

  


“He is,” his host, his lover replied. “Doradus is an ancient city-former. Our home, our friend.”

  


“I had no idea any remained.”

  


“They weren’t forged for war, they were forged for life. Most still out there are in stasis, to spare themselves the pain. The mechanisms livin’ in ‘m got no idea.”

  


The Praxian found walking more a strain then swimming, but it was not any real struggle. This feeling, the lingering echo of a long interface, made him feel happy and sated. Jazz guided him through the bitch black tunnel, someone still able to see in the utter absence of light. Then the tunnel opened into a cavern, and from somewhere in the darkness the mermech conjured light. Prowl looked up and saw stars. Of course, these were not stars, but a mosaic of crystals in the pattern of the dark-cycle sky. Walls bore mosaics too, some cracked, it was clear by the old rubble that the caver had once been far larger, at some point it had suffered a collapse. But what remained was furnished and decorated to be a comfortable hideaway, down to a niche carved into the floor and filled with pillows. Seeing it made Prowl’s legs a little weak he was more tired from their activities than he might have thought.

  


“Dinner in berth,” Jazz said, guiding Prowl to the niche. Below the mound of pillows, the niche was lined, and they proved more supportive that the tactician would have thought. He sank into them, it was bliss.

  


After fuel, they recharged. They did not make love again, but they curled up together. It was the first time Prowl ever recharged with another mech, and he found he liked it. The Praxian told himself not to get used to it, or too comfortable with Jazz. When the submarine returned, he would go with it, there was no other choice. Still, for now, let him drink up every touch, every pleasure no matter how small, because he would be starved of it in Iacon. Sometime in the dark-cycle, there was a low rumbling, and it drew the tactician online. He knew the sound, and the sensation. Above them, the cliff side was being bombed. Prowl moved to climb from the niche, but his lover pulled him back.

  


“Cavern’s safer than the tunnels,” he said. “Hope they get sick o’ throwin’ slag at each other before too long.”

  


“They?” Prowl asked.

  


“Combiners ‘n Omega Sentinels. Never saw anythin’ like’em in Polihex ‘til ten vorns ago,” Jazz explained

  


“That would be the Prime’s work,” the Praxian dropped his helm and sighed. “They are Omega Destructors now. They do not guard any city or frametype, they are strictly weapons of attack. The combiners would be the work of Decepticons.”

  


“Sounds like ya know’em well.”

  


“I am a tactician. I write strategies to win the Prime’s battles.”

  


“It sounds like ya hate it,” his lover stroked his helm and nuzzled him. It had been so long since anyone had cared to comfort him, Prowl melted into it.

  


“I hate him. He his my grand-progenitor. I did not meet him until I was a youngling. He had abandoned my grand-originator when he was gravid. Zeta, he is called Zeta Prime, only came after they, my grand-originator and procreators died together in an accident, and only vorns after that. I remained in Praxus even after he learned I had been orphaned, though he paid for my education. Even after I was grown, even after I graduated and enlisted in the Enforcers, he did not return. Not until he was Prime, and decided he had use of me.”

  


“‘M sorry,” Jazz kissed his helm.

  


“I do not even hate him for that. I hate him because he lied. He said he was going to end corruption in the Senate, he was going to tear down the Functionalist regime. I suppose he did, but he replaced it with his own, and the Senators that speak against him disappear. Some comeback, changed, victims of Empurata. He does not even bother with show trials.”

  


“Ya tried to get away.”

  


“I am convinced he ordered the shuttle shot down, and killed twenty-nine innocent mechanisms, including fifteen sparklings in order to bring me back in line. I am trying to temper his madness. I try, but I fail much of the time.”

  


“Ya don’t gotta go back,” the mermech sat halfway up, perched on his arm, and looking down at Prowl. “When Doradus moves on, ya can move wit us.”

  


“I cannot stay,” the tactician shook his helm, it was a lovely thought, but it was just a bitter fantasy. “He would ravage the coast, and then the whole of the Rust Sea. He would rake up the seabed to find me. Because he did not consent to my leaving.”

  


“Ya put too much on ya shoulders, sweetspark,” Jazz crooned.

  


It was joors before the rumbling ceased. His lover insisted he stay put. Prowl was not helpless, and he could see just fine, but he acquiesced, but only because Jazz was right on a single point. The mermech knew this tunnel, and the others that stretched spread out from this cavern and others likes roots from trees. Though he stayed in the cavern, in the niche, he did not lounge, or recharge. Instead he sat, his rifle resting on his lap, and he waited. Jazz did not keep him long. In fact, his lover came back so quickly that in covered the news they had both feared.

  


“There has been a collapse?” He guessed.

  


“Doradus knows we’re here, ‘n he’ll dig us out,” his lover explained. “A mega-cycle or two tops.”

  


“You do not appear concerned.”

  


“We got fuel stores for quartexes, ‘n a comfortable berth, we’ll be fine.”

  


“I wonder what we can do to keep ourselves entertained for two mega-cycles?”

  


“Well, Prowler, I think I got a few ideas.”


	5. Royal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Atlantis, Dystopia and Cave In. There will be some gaps in this going forward as the prompts diversify, but for now, have fun.

They remained trapped in the cave for three mega-cycles. Prowl did not complain, he spent the joors in the embrace of one who showered him with affection and praise. With each passing joor the Praxian found the idea of leaving harder and harder to bear. He clung to Jazz and moaned his designation as his lover made love to him again. Over the mega-cycles, they had interfaced in a dozen or more position. With the mermech draped over his back, with Prowl on his lap, facing him or a way, sprawled out on the berth, on their sides. When the tactician came down from this high, he knew he was going to ache for mega-cycles, but it would be well worth it. These had been the best mega-cycles of his life. As much as his spark clenched and stuttered at the thought of leaving, he knew it was what he had to do. Because he loved this mech, knowing his just mega-cycles or not, Prowl knew with total certainty that he loved Jazz, and for this love he would leave. He would not subject his lover or his kin to Zeta’s wrath.

“Prowl,” Jazz moaned his designation.

His armour had been discarded, he lay beneath the other, folded in half, his legs spread wide, draped over his lover’s shoulders, he held onto Jazz’s arms and tossed his helm back. His chassis was littered in love bites. This was why the mermech had been slow to kiss him, why it had been Prowl to take the lead there. The mermech of Doradus left marks on their lovers, a public claim. Jazz could not mark him publicly, not without risk to the Praxian, so he left bites across his chassis, encircling his spark chamber. There were bites on the backs of his knees too, and low on his doorwings where his backplate would hide them. Prowl still felt that bite as his back dragged against the pillows, and it brought his pleasure higher. He was on the precipice, so close to the edge, and as Jazz’s movements became rougher, and less controlled, Prowl knew he was close to. The tactician reached up, and brought their helms together, when his lover ground their arrays together, and released so deep within him, Prowl followed, his spike spraying another load of thin, sticky transfluids over their chassis.

Again, scarcely a drop of transfluid leaked from his sopping, tender valve rim as Jazz lowered Prowl’s legs backs down to the berth and curled up next to him. He had explained it as a matter of frame evolution. Because they so often interfaced in the open sea, their frames had evolved and adapted to the environment, and rather than wash away as fluids of a thinner viscosity would, their transfluids remained deep in the frames of their lovers. Simply put, it was a matter of fertility and conception. With so many overloads packed inside his gestation tank, the Praxian would have thought his protoform would be bulging, but his protoform was perfectly smooth. His frame would process the energy, and potential nutrients for its own benefit. Considering his poor habits regarding his frame upkeep, this was something of a boon for him. Because his spark was not in season to ignite, it would not store the transfluids as it might if he was in a procreo-cycle. Prowl was not at all sorry, if he had been in a cycle, or remotely close, he would not have dared to interface.

“He’s made it through,” Jazz murmured, lifting his helm from the pillow. He kissed Prowl, so soft and sweet after such a vigorous, claiming interface. “We outta clean up, then I can help ya back into yer armour.”

“That would be wise,” the Praxian might have liked to lay there for joors, but remaining in the cave, knowing there had already been a battle above their helms would have been foolish.

They had only one mega-cycle left. Prowl wish he could be brazen or brave. He wished he could throw caution and care aside and stay. But he had seen was Zeta Prime had done, what had become of Senator Shockwave, and he did not dare. It was not only his life in peril. Jazz washed him clean. Of course the Praxian could have done this himself, but it was lovely just to lay back and to be taken care of. As his armour was secured back into place, is pressed against the love bites littering his frame, reminding him of his lovers claim. His frame tingled, sweetly abused valve clenched. There was an unmistakable ache in the deepest recesses of his valve, every step Prowl took, he felt it, but he liked it. In an orn or so, his self-repair systems will have every shorted node, and overtaxed segment repaired, and the tactician would no longer feel the mermech still inside of him, and he would miss it.

“I didn’t hurt ya too bad?” the mermech asked as they descended back into the tunnel.

“No,” Prowl replied. “I will feel our activities for mega-cycles, but its good.”

Prowl had not expected there to be anyone waiting for them when they swam out into open energon. But there was some one, or something. A long tentacle rose up from the seabed and undulated in front of them. Jazz drew Prowl towards it, and brought the Praxian’s servo against it. All at once he felt the presence of Doradus in his processor. The cityformer communicated in images, impressions and emotions, and Prowl was overwhelmed. He could not move, could not even take his servo away as Doradus shared millions of stellar-cycles of history with him. Cybertronians had changed little since he had taken his inhabitants into the sea. Cities like the Praxian had always known had lost their notion of community, each mechanism took what they wanted, not so much what they needed, built on the backs of others. In his processor Prowl saw the tunnel he had Jazz had spent the mega-cycles making love in. When Doradus had sat above the sea, his tendrils and reached into the cliffs, into the sea floor. When he had seen one too many battles, he had pulled them out, pulled himself free and taken his inhabitants, his treasure into the security of the Rust Sea. Whenever a threat came to close, he pulled his tentacles up, and swam on for another resting spot. War would not touch him, and his again. Prowl nodded.

“_This one will do.”_

Had the great mech spoken aloud or just into his helm. Jazz smiled at Prowl, visor glinting, and the tactician thought he must have heard it to. The tentacle coiled around them, gentle like an originator holding his or her creation, and slowly drew them back into his centre.  He released them next to the portal they had swam out of. Prowl bowed, best as he could in the water, understanding what this mech was. Doradus was a king, he was a god. There was no lord of Doradus as the Praxian would understand it. The representatives, the Speakers kept peace and order within his walls, but the power they yielded was not theirs. If any abused their posts, Doradus would strip them of it, he had no lord, he was Lord.

“_This one will do nicely.”_

Jazz smiled. Prowl flushed. They returned through the pressurization room, and back up those winding passages. No one came out to see them, no one came looking for his lover. But of course, they had never been lost, Doradus had always known where they were. He might even have known what they were doing, he must have known. The cityformer would have known whenever his inhabitants laid with each other. Prowl felt a warm chuckle in his helm, and he shivered. Doradus knew, and Doradus celebrated, he was forged to guard and to grow life. When his inhabitants, he cherished creations, loved, he felt transcendental joy knowing he was fulfilling his purpose.

Doradus left Prowl’s processor when the lovers arrived and Jazz’s suite. They tumbled into berth, but did not interface again, the Praxian needed time to heal, unfortunately it was time they did not have. Jazz pulled Prowl to him, curled around him, and they recharged. Some time in the dark-cycle, or perhaps the next mega-cycle the mermech untangled himself from his taller, broader lover. Prowl raised his helm from his pillow, though his recharge protocols tried to drag him back down. Before he could rise, Jazz crooned at him, and kissed him, and told him to rest. He had to meet with the Speaker, before the submersible returned, and before the tactician was reunited with his party. Recharge pulled Prowl under again as his lover kissed his jaw and promised to return. As he dropped into recharge, the Praxian did so smiling.


	6. Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing on the same vein of Atlantis, etc. This will be the last ficlet in this verse for a few days. Stay tuned for Crime on Sunday. New warnings will apply.

Alone in his lover’s berth, Prowl dozed a little longer. He really did not want to leave, but he could not imagine staying, even without the threat of Zeta hanging over his helm. Since he had been a youngling, he had worked. At the boarding school the Praxian had helped with filing, with grading. When his classmates returned home to their families for festivals, he had always remained behind helping the groundskeepers with the crystal gardens. Leisure time was suffocating to him, he had filled his mega-cycles with mental or physical activity since his family had so suddenly died. Sitting in the quiet, reading, or playing Fullstasis. These were past times he had shared with his procreators, and revisiting them hand always been terribly painful. What would he do in Doradus, anyways? They would have no use for him. Prowl needed to work, and seeing what was happening out there, seeing the part he himself had already played, he needed to bring it to order before all of Cybertron burned.

“Ya look so serious,” Jazz observed, as he stood in the doorway. “‘N sad.”

“I wish a storm would come and delay the submersible’s return,” Prowl confessed.

“Mmm, that could probably be arranged,” the mermech said. He joined Prowl on the berth, and pulled him into his laugh. “The Prime ain’t the only thing keepin’ ya from stayin’.”

“I am a tactician. I have used my abilities to aid my grand-progenitor. I never intended him to use my plans in quite the way he has. He is ruthless, and utterly without mercy, but he has a way of charming mechanisms. He has convinced so many the Kaonite rebellion is groundless. He has convinced so many they are honourless savages that need to be put back into their place. If he cannot be tempered, a war will erupt that will touch ever corner of Cybertron and the colonies.”

“Do you think ya can temper’m?”

“I do not know. He... He has no respect for me as a mech, but my intellect, he respects. I am a glitch.”

“No!”

“I am, I crash. You saw.”

“Ya have a glitch,” Jazz said, and he stroked the Praxian’s helm. “Ya ain’t a glitch.”

“It is the same to him. He would have preferred never to acknowledge me, he did not until I had long made my own way. Had he been asked, he never would have approved of my originator, he had a glitch, milder, but much the same. But Zeta left Praxus before my progenitor ever even emerged, and he did not come back until after he had died. Someone must have called him back, I did not, I knew nothing of him beyond that he had abandoned my grand-originator shortly after their bonding to make his fortune. Naturally, his opinion was not asked.”

“He sounds like a sack of scrap.”

“Yet the Matrix chose him,” Prowl said, leaning into his lover’s touch. “And Sentinel before him, what does that say Primus’ sacred implement?”

“Just another trinket,” his lover snorted, the Praxian nodded his agreement. “‘M gonna go wit ya to Iacon.”

“What?” The Praxian jerked upright. His spark was racing, he could imagined why the mermech would leave this place. Jazz pulled their helms together.

“Doradus might be hidden, but we always paid attention to what’s goin’ on up there. Ignorance ain’t bliss, it’s dangerous. ‘M a vilicus, ‘m ‘sposed to guard us from dangerous from the outside. Zeta will look for us, won’t he? Whether ya go back or not. He ain’t gonna take a no for an answer.”

“You are correct.”

“So we give’m a peace offerin’ o’ sorts. My services.”

Jazz explained as they laid together than the existence of Doradus had been uncovered hundreds of times over the millenia. Largely, the intruders left peaceably, or remained as friends and guests. Others tried to prey on the mermechs, sometimes catching curious explorers in great nets and selling the unfortunate mermechs to collectors. Villicii like Jazz protected their kin from poachers, and polluters. They decided which of the intruders that stumbled upon their home were friends, and which were threats. This duty was not always clean. At one point, the knowledge that he had shared a berth, and his frame with an assassin would have horrified Prowl, but he accepted this aspect of his lover with ease. When their kin were stolen from them, they could not call for aid, they could not reveal their location without bringing more threats onto their helms. Jazz did not casually murder innocent mechanisms, he killed mechanisms that had hurt or killed his kinsmech, and only as a last resort. Funny, how easily Prowl could make peace with this.

Early the next light-cycle Jazz let him back out, to where the other villicii and the Speaker were waiting with the Prime’s other envoys. Senator Decimus glowered at Prowl, but the Praxian paid him no mind. Already he was thinking, and planning. Decimus and the others would blame their failure to secure an alliance with the mermechs on him, and his glitch. Zeta would all but certainly agree with them, and though the tactician did not precisely fear for his safety, he did fear his grand-progenitor overall. The envoys were surprised when Jazz followed them on to the submersible. Clearly they had their questions, but with the stranger in their midst, mostly they kept silent. The senator was clearly becoming overwhelmed with temper, and he snarled Prowl’s designation, jerking him from his plots. The mermech smiled at him, showing all his denta. It was not a friendly smile.

“Your weakness turned out mission into a disaster,” the Senator snapped.

“On the contrary,” Jazz said, smooth, yet cutting. “Yer petty stunt doomed ya from the start. Ya made a mockery of the Kiss, our most sacred ceremony, ‘n showed ya got no honour or loyalty. We expect better from our allies.”

Decimus stared at the mermech for a klik then turned his helm to speak to the envoy beside him. Jazz smiled, like a Sharkticon, and Prowl knew he was pleased with himself. The Praxian was afraid for his lover. If Zeta Prime wanted to make a pet of him, who could stop him? If Zeta Prime was offended by Dorasu’ refusal and took his wrath out on Jazz, who would stop him? Prowl? Prowl could try, he could beg, he could fight, but the Prime was never without his vamparc ribbon close to servo, and he would not hesitate to put his grand-creation down. But if it came to it, the tactician would face that ribbon if it meant defending his lover. He wanted to curl up with him, to take comfort, to give comfort, and to plan, but he kept his distance. Zeta could not know there was anything between him, or it would become his greatest weapon against Prowl yet.

Upon their arrival in Iacon, Senator Decimus was quick to join the Prime for an audience, speeding ahead of Prowl, who had to summon a Convoy for himself and Jazz. Still they did not talk, anybot in Iacon might be a spy. When they finally arrived at the Citadel, they faced a long wait. Zeta spoke with every single envoy, and even the captain of the submersible, before he summoned Prowl inside his inner sanctum. The Praxian passed his grand-progenitor’s favourite, Orion Pax watched after him with a hooded expression. What made him so suspicious of Prowl, did he feel his position was threatened because the tactician was Zeta’s kin? He should not have been concerned. While Zeta’s own creation had emerged, grown and died, he had mentor the Orion Pax of Iacon from his earliest vorns in the city’s Enforcers, and had made him his special investigator after his rise to Primacy. If Zeta care for anyone, he might have cared for Pax. No, it was more likely the idealistic Enforcer was just another pawn.

“I understand your defect disrupted my emissaries,” Zeta Prime said, and Prowl was shown in. He spared the newcomer, Jazz, barely more than a glance.

“Senator Decimus staged the situation,” Prowl replied, though he knew it did not good to defend himself.

“Quite the farce too,” the mermech said, and now the Prime looked at him. His optics were cold, and calculating, but not murderous.

“Vilicus Jazz,” the tactician explained.

“Envoy Prowl saved yer emissary from our sells,” Jazz explained. “He spent the orn defending the righteousness o’ the Autobots ‘n their Prime. If those were yer best, Yer Excellency, we got ‘cause to doubt that righteousness. They violated our Kiss, laughed at our gift, ‘n caused sufferin’ to their comrade. Trust is everythin’ to use, Yer Excellency, the seas are a dangerous place. I wouldn’t trust those mechs with a Sharkticon.”

“Then why are you here?” The Prime asked.

“Envoy Prowl convinced our lord we have a common enemy,” the villicus explained. “Doradus will not join your fight, but I’ve been sent to offer my services to your cause.”

“Oh?”

“My resume,” Jazz pushed a datapad across Zeta Prime’s desk and stepped back. Though he had not seen the contents, Prowl guessed what they were. One after the other, his grand-progenitor scrolled through a photo gallery, each one of Jazz’s kills.”

“I have seen some of these before. But the assassin had a different designation.”

“But, o’ course. Ya can call me Meister.”


	7. Fairytale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is loosely based on the fairy tale: Catherine and her Destiny.

In a small village in Praxus, a beautiful mechling emerged to a proud merchant and his sparkmate. They called his Prowl. As the bitlet turned into a young mechling, his beauty only became for refined. Mechanisms from far and wide presented their younglings or themselves as matches, but his procreators dismissed them all at his behest. Cautious and studious, the youngling paid little thought to his would be suitors, for all he was beautiful, his spark was shy. Even at his young age, Prowl was wise, he knew they only saw his beauty, and he thought he would like more than that. Ignoring his ardent admirers, the young Praxian spent his mega-cycles in study or assisting his procreators with their business. One mega-cycle, while running errands for them, a stranger stopped him on the street, and asked him a fateful question:

“Would you rather be happy in your youth or your old age?”

After careful consideration, he answered: “My old age.”

The stranger disappeared, and disaster immediately fell upon the young mech. His procreators died suddenly, and all their credits were lost. All those lustful younglings and their procreators wanted nothing to do with him, though he was still beautiful he was terrible poor. Seeing no other way, Prowl entered the service and became a housekeeper for a stodgy lawyer. As soon as he settled into his duties, a stranger creature appeared. Though it war his face, it looked to have been carved from crystal. It smiled at him, and then spun about, turning the lawyers orderly habsuite into a disaster. Seeing his employer’s collection of antique engex decanters shattered, Prowl fled before he could be blamed, he did not have the credits to repay the damages.

Wherever he went, the story repeated itself. As soon as Prowl settled in a new function or place, the crystal spectre appear and unleashed chaos. Certain he would be arrested if he remained in Praxus, the young mech fled east, and so it went for vorns and vorns. The very moment he became comfortable in any land, misfortune would befall him and those around him. Whenever his employers would return home, or another servant appeared, the spectre was gone, and there was no one to blame but Prowl. By the time Prowl arrived in Polihex, his young spark knew only grief and despair. An old hermit hired him to help him with his errands, he was loath to go to market to fetch his own fuel anymore. Mega-cycle after mega-cycle, the Praxian went to the market and fetched the hermit his fuel. Prowl did not relax as he settle in the hermit’s home. For seven vorns he served the hermit, never letting down his guard. In quiet moments, when he was alone, he wept. Though the spectre had not returned, he knew some mega-cycle it would, and he would be run off again, and he was oh so very tired.

“Why do ya cry?” Old Punch asked, settling beside him on the bench overlooking the bustling city, down the road from the hermit’s hovel. Weeping with such misery, Prowl told Punch of his great woes. The hermit nodded with sympathy, and said: “That is your Destiny. When it appears again, tell it to stop.”

Prowl could not imagine it could be so simple. Yet, the very next mega-cycle the spectre appeared and before it could wreak its havoc on the old hermit’s home, the young Praxian commanded it to stop its torments. Without speaking, his Destiny inclined his helm and laid in the unlucky servant’s servos a skein of sapphire wire. The young mech did not understand what use he could have for this, but his Destiny disappeared before he could ask. Prowl tucked the skein away in a chest and continued on as he had life. Old Punch still needed a helper, and the Praxian was grateful to final be free of his Destiny’s torment. One mega-cycle, as he performed the same errand he always did, he heard the town crier speak. The young king of Polihex was due to bond, but the tailor constructing his fine armour had run out of one particular wire, and none could be found throughout the land. Any mechanisms would present such wire to the king’s court would be given a great reward. Prowl thought of the wire in his chest, but dismissed it. Who would need blue wire? He returned to the hermit’s home, and told him what the crier had said. Punch went to Prowl’s chest, retrieved the skein and placed it in his servos.

“This’ll be the match,” Punch said. “I seen the tailor’s work.

Though the young servant could not understand how the old hermit could have seen the king’s armour, he travelled back to the city, and to the palace. He stood in line for many joors as mechanisms from across Polihex presented their wire bundles to the court. Prowl kept his oddly blue skein hidden, wrapped in a cloth. All the wire in the baskets and arms of the others waiting was shades of gold, silver, copper, black or platinum. There was no wire so colourful and bright as his. Steadily, the line shrank as every skein presented was dismissed. The mech in front of him sneered as his shiny bronze wire was declined. As he left, the green Polihexian grumbled about stealing it for nothing, Prowl watched him go. Finally, it was his turn to present his skein, and the Praxian unwrapped his Destiny’s gift.

“It’s exactly right!” The tailor exclaimed. Prowl stood in utter disbelief as the court declared the skein be put on a scale, his reward would be treasure, in whatever amount the skein weighed. First they put down shanix, but the scale did not dip. Then they put down crystals, still the scale did not change. They piled the scale with chests, and baskets spilling over with treasure, but even with all that, the scale did not move. The whole of the king’s treasure was piled on the scale, still the scale did not move. A noble jumped up and demanded Prowl tell them where he came to find this wire, and he told them his woeful tale. From the back of the great hall, a familiar voice spoke:

“Yer happy mega-cycles are about to begin.”

The king descended from his throne, brilliant aqua visor glinting, broad mouth smiling with humour. He leapt on to the scale, and it balanced. There was a gasp throughout the room. Prowl flinch, thinking this would be another of his Destiny’s cruel games. Amid the roar of questions and exclaimations, the king stepped off the scale and walked over to wear the Praxian stood frozen, and knelt at Prowl’s peds.

“I think this means ya outta be my sparkmate.”

They were bonded. The king’s previous intended was happy to end their betrothal for he had always preferred another. Millions of stellar-cycles passed and Prowl looked out at the six mechlings he had carried, and the twenty grand-creations they had carried or kindled after. He looked to his mate, smiled and declared he truly was the happiest of mechs.


	8. Sick!Fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Depictions of alien/transformer childbirth below.
> 
> I had to write this between more pressing projects so I'll tidying it up tomorrow. I hope.

Prowl back was absolutely throbbing. Wincing, he reached his servos behind himself to rub his lower back. He had been having trouble with it for a while now, stellar-cycles? A vorn? In any case, he blamed the chair he spent ninety percent of his life in. Really, he should have requisitioned a new one by now but the Praxian had never felt it right too. There was always rationing, always something. Millenia at war had strained not just the Autobot’s but the planet’s resources. Other mechanisms all the world over suffered worse than a little back pain, and the stoic mech bore it, as he did his temperamental fuel tank, and exhaustion. His appetite had always been delicate, fit to leave him utter any great, or even minor stress. During the long siege, it had been non existent, and the very thought of fuelling had made him want to purge.

After the siege it had suddenly comeback in full force, and beyond. In the last stellar-cycles, Prowl had consumed more fuel than ever before in his life. In fact, his appetite was so great he hid his gluttony, fearing what the others would think. Only Jazz had detected the slightest different and he had been thrilled to see the tactician fuelling “like a normal mech”. It was hardly normal, it was embarrassing! If Jazz knew about all the energon goodies Prowl had stored in his office and about his habsuite, he would have laughed. Perhaps it would have been good natured, but still. The SIC was beginning to understand how Trailbreaker felt and he hoped his subordinate had not rubbed off on him.

His appetite had dropped right off in the last few stellar-cycles, and Prowl had found himself only picking at his fuel. He was not precisely nausea, but he felt an odd pressure deep inside himself. Stress? That was what Ratchet would say, or so the Praxian told himself. Prowl read over his agenda for the meeting ahead. In war time, credits and resources were always a matter of contention within departments, his recommendation that they relocate more of these resources to research and development was not bound to be a popular one. But they could not keep throwing mechlings and femmeling fresh from their upgrades onto the battlefield. They did not have the numbers to withstand the losses they had been suffering. Even with the use of cold constructs, the Autobots were faltering, they could not afford to play this game. If they were to come out of this madness victorious, they needed to fight smarter.

He felt something inside his chassis tense. A tank ache, he told himself, just a little stage fright. None of the others would believe he could suffer it, they would never believe he suffered self doubt. Prowl pushed himself to his peds, and collected his meticulously researched and organized analysis. When his back heard like this, when he did not dare go to Jazz for help, the Praxian found walking helped release some of the tension. It was not a long walk from his office to his war room, it was only two doors down. No one had gathered yet. Hoping some motion might ease his pain, the tactician paced the length of the room once, twice and a dozen times.

It felt like he had something the size of a wrecking ball in his chassis,  the pain only seemed to build as he moved . This sensation had come and go for the last dozen or more stellar-cycle but Prowl had past it off as stress. He ran a servo his hood and vented a sigh. There was a great deal at stake with this meeting. The status quo had to be broken, he had to convince not just Prime but all of the commanders that the goal was not to be stronger than the Decepticons but smarter, and as it was the enemy had made far greater technological leaps than the Autobots had in the lasted twenty stellar-cycle or so Megatron had them up against the wall, even if they could not see it yet. Prowl had reason to stress. However cold his reputation might have been, he did not enjoy throwing thousands of mechanisms into the front, he did not enjoy hanging back in Iacon waiting to see how many actually returned. 

“Heya Prowler,” Jazz purred the nickname.

Hearing it sent a flush through his frame. His lover still managed to make him feel like a youngling with his first crush. It was not entirely unpleasant. Though they had been together for a decavorn, it was not official. Few Autobots knew of their ongoing affair. But the secrecy was not for the sales of the enlisted, but rather the enemy. Both he and Jazz would become that much more tempting of targets if the Decepticons knew you might be able to remove two of the Prime's principle lieutenants if you managed to capture one. Prowl dropped his servo to his side and offered the Polihexian a smile. If Jazz knew how he was feeling he would insist Prowl see Ratchet, and he was not going to do that. Their appointments always followed the same vein. Work less, recharge more, etc, etc.

“Good mega-cycle, Jazz.” Prowl could not say what compelled him but he leaned over and lightly kissed the corner of the saboteur’s full mouth. He felt Jazz smile, before he could pull back, his lover brought his servo to the Praxian’s cheek and turned to kiss him properly. Prowl let him, and happily returned the kiss with equal intensity. Of course with the others would be arriving shortly and they did not linger on it.

“You'll knock'em dead.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

That cube of pressed energon he had choke down was not sitting well, and his fuel tank clenched as the pressure in his chassis intensified. As the others entered, Prowl went to the podium as Jazz went to his chair. Wheeljack’s helm fins lit up as he gave the tactician two enthusiastic thumbs up. His department would benefit the most from the relocation of resources. Taking the seat next to the well known madmech, Preceptor nodded, Prowl nodded back. He ignored the pressure in his chassis even as it bordered on pain. When Optimus Prime sat, the Praxian began his presentation. Prowl only managed to speak the first two sentences of his speech before he grimaced with a new wave of pain. The Prime frowned, and sitting with the scientists, Ratchet gave him a scowl. There would be no escaping the medic. Smoothing his faceplates, the tactician started again.

All at once he felt as if something in his frame had rupture, the pain was excrutiating. His knees buckled, and Prowl gripped the podium with denting force as he struggled to keep his peds. He dropped a servo to his abdomen and felt a very pronounced mound, and his processor locked. Before he could crash, the Praxian was struck by another wave of pain, and the protoform under his servo split, and leaked over his servo. Shaking with fear, confusion and pain, Prowl half collapsed over the podium, he lifted his servo, it was covered in pink tinged lubricants. The next wave of pain saw him fall to his knees, Ratchet was with him a nanoklik later.

“Out!” He shouted. “Everyone... Except you, Jazz!”

“Me?” Jazz asked. Prowl lifted him his helm and watched is lover frozen in place. He felt tears pool in his optics as everyone stared at him.

“Out, now!” The medic snapped again. “Of course you, Jazz, he didn’t do this to himself.”

“What?” Both mech asked, though Prowl’s questioned ended of a cry of pain.

“Jazz, get over here,” Ratchet ordered. “I need you to stay come, Prowl. You’re in emergence, I need to exam you to see how you’re progressing.”

“I can not be in emergence.” The tactician’s voice was high, and raspy. It sounded foreign to is own audials. To be in emergence, you had to be carrying and he... “Ah!”

Between them, Ratchet and Jazz, lowered him onto his back. Every instinct in his order Prowl to roll over, he writhed in pain. Jazz caught his flailing servo and held it between his. Another wave of pain struck the Praxian and he squeezed his lover’s servo hard. The saboteur might have made hiss of pain, but before Prowl pay him any attention, a particular violent surge had him arching his back as his protoform seemed to be intent on tearing him apart. He needed to roll over, he needed... Ratchet servos were on him, inside him. Prowl’s processor stalled, he really was in emergence. Again he felt like he was about to crash but protocols forced their way into the forefront of his conscious processor. Originatoring protocols, evacuation protocols, again his processor stalled, but these new protocols overwhelmed his glitch.

“The newling’s transverse, I need to guide him into position,” the Iaconian said. “Prowl, I need you to lie still, best as you can. I’m going to reach into your forge and turn the bitlet. It’s going to hurt, but you’re going to be fine.”

“I...” Prowl offlined his optics as he resisted his frame’s intuitive need to be on his knees. He felt an all encompassing need to push from within.

“I need you to relax,” Ratchet said, pressed along the sides of his protoform, against his forge. It hurt! Prowl squeezed Jazz’s servo, and stifled a scream.

“Deep vents, Prowler,” Jazz crooned and kissed his knuckles. “Ratchet’s gonna take care o’ ya, I got ya, lover.”

Prowl tried to obey. He shuddered as the medic manipulated the newling from outside his frame. The tactician still could not completely grasp what was happening to him. How could he be carrying, his forge had never distended. Unless the bitlet was premature, he could not help but tense again with this thought, as his protoform rippled with another contraction. Primus it hurt! From his hips up to his spark chamber tensed and spasmed. Deep inside him, something, the newling shifted, and the medic pulled his servos back. The Praxian groaned. He needed to move, he needed to move, he needed to push.

“He’s all lined up,” the medic declared. “Jazz, help me get him up. You’re doing great, Prowl, now on your knees.”

He could not speak, the only sound Prowl could make was a low whine, but he grateful accepted the two mechs’ aid. As soon as he was upright, he sagged onto servos and knees. Jazz stroked his back, as he held the Praxian’s shoulders. Ratchet reached beneath him. Driver by primitive coding, Prowl strained and pushed. Pain came in steady waves, but the tactician was lost in them, he could not find a rhythm. Exhaustion suffused him, and his arms buckled. It hurt. It hurt. It was much too much, he needed it to be over. It felt as if his frame was going to rupture, but Prowl could not stop himself from pushing.

“Easy,” Ratchet ordered. He dragged Prowl servos onto his shoulders, and supported the weary Praxian. “Stop. Stop. Push with the contractions. No. Easy. Easy. We don’t want you to tear. Easy.”

Jazz’s servos were on his back, and gentle magnetic pulses made him droop. With the pain in his back ebbing, it was easier to find the rhythm of his contraction, and he became in tuned to to the mechanics of emergence. Barely hearing the medic anymore, Prowl rested as the pain crested and only pushed as it started to recede. Ventilations becoming ragged, the Praxian felt as the newling bulged in the opening of his forge. Now the pain was constant, and again he lost the rhythm of his frame. He was so tired, but as he followed the overlapping waves of pain, and the spasms of his frame, Prowl pushed again. With a gush of lubricants, the newling fell from his forge, and into Ratchet’s servos.

The tactician fell back against Jazz’s chassis, too tired, too sore to hold himself upright. As he watched, optics dimmed, the medic held the ovaloid form against the Praxian’s sealed spark chamber. Even as it brushed against him, the newling unfurled and latched on to his protoform, wailing as he did. Prowl brought his servos up to cup the tiny thing, and immediately the bitlet soothed. All he could do was stare at the newling. Was he healthy? He seemed so small, easily fitting in the tactician’s servos. There were no winglets, the mechlings had taken after his progenitor in frame, perhaps that was why he seemed small. His part was not over yet. As he lay stunned in his lovers arms, the bitlet, his bitlet nuzzling at his chassis, Ratchet examined his forge. Slowly, in folded back into his protoform, and Prowl let his helm droop. His mechling dropped his helm back, and stared at the Praxian with clear, cerulean optics.

“Congratulations, Prowl,” Ratchet said. “You have a healthy, Polihexian mechling.”


	9. Sharing a Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing after Sick!Fic aka I didn't Know I was Carrying.

Jazz watched the one he loved as he dozed on his side with their new creation tucked in the crook of his arm. They had not designated him yet, they had nothing for him yet, except for love, they had more love for the newling than he could ever know. Having dismissed the symptoms of carrying as just more general malaise, Prowl had not selected a nursery or prepared his habsuite. His, not there’s. With the secrecy they had both felt need for neither had even recharged at the other’s home. As the war had seemed set to stretch on forever, they had not even whispered in the dark about what its and the future. They had not planned a life together after the war, neither was convinced either one of them would see the end, let alone both of them, though Jazz thought they had both dared to hope, he knew he had.

Prowl may not have nested on his home, he had still been nesting though Jazz had missed the signs. The way the tactician had become singularly obsessed with resources had not appeared out of place, neither had his demands the cold constructs actually be trained. The thought made him smile, a cold spark indeed. No one he had known cared so deep as his lover, dug so deep and gave so much. Though Prowl was SIC he had never upgraded his habsuite, it was only the smallest of studios, cozy for one mech or for lovers tangled together in the berth, it was too small for a family, because to Pit with Megatron and his war, that was what they were. He sat on the berth and gazed at the two halves of his spark. 

Somehow neither Prowl nor the bitlet had come to any harm after an unplanned and unprepared carrying, and emergence on the War Room floor. The new origin had suffered some microscopic tears around the outer rim of his forge but other than sterilizing them, Ratchet had left them alone, in his glyphs, they were a common occurrence. Evacuating the newling had exhausted Prowl, more Jazz thought than if he had had any pre-emergence care. Had his condition been known Ratchet could have turned the bitlet, his lover would have been been prepared for the process, and the pain. As it was the tactician was tired and sore, and Jazz was hyper aware. Procreator protocols had roared to life in his helm the moment he had seen the tiny mechling emerge from Prowl’s frame. The desire, the need to guard them, mate and creation, were utterly irresistible, not that he made any attempt to resist. He thought he could watch them for joors.

For the first vorn of his life the newling would scarcely tolerate being outside of frame contact with his origin. He would stay magnetized to the Praxian’s chassis whenever Prowl was up and about, and Prowl would feel the same call for this close proximity. As a new origin, and a first time one, his lover would not want to roam far from home. He would be wary of anyone coming too close, even after giving consent, this could well even include the bitlet’s progenitor, not that Jazz minded. His job was to provide for Prowl everything he needed to see their creation grow healthy, and to guard them so he could grow safely. The saboteur was determined not to fail at either task.

Slowly Jazz eased from sitting to reclining. He gazed at his lover’s serene face, there could never be a mech more beautiful. The war would call the progenitor away from his love and creation, but not yet.  There were some tasks he felt better suited to than any of his operatives, but there were close seconds, and he was prepared to delegate, and he thought they were ready and willing to go. His closest friends, and more seasoned operatives, Mirage and Hound had already sent him congratulations, and both had offered themselves up for deployment in his stead should their come a need. As commander of Special Operations, he had taken viewer and viewer deployments, and the ones he had taken had been shorter and shorter as his duties as an officer called for his presence in Iacon. Jazz was prepared to leave, if there was a threat he was best suited to take down, he would go without hesitation to ensure his family’s safety. He would give anything and everything for them.

“Are you just going to stare,” Prowl asked without onlining his optics. “Or are you going to recharge?”

“Just havin’ a hard time believin’ I could be this lucky,” Jazz replied. He stroke his servo down his lover’s face. Prowl’s optics lit up at that, his expression was tentative.

“I feel like a fool.”

“Prowler, ya always push yerself so hard. ‘M just glad it was a bitty, ‘n not somethin’ slowly killin’ ya. Ya gotta take better care o’ yerself now, love.”

“I know. I feel like such a fool. Everyone saw me.”

“They don’t matter.” Jazz leaned over their bitlet and his lover. “Only you. I thought ya might die in front of me, but ya gave me a bitlet instead. What else could I want?”

“It was a terrible time to create. We are still rationing. There are still rolling power failures.”

“Ya aren’t the only Bot wit a bitty, Prowler. We’re fightin’ this war for our future. Bitlets are _the_ future.”

“Would you hold me?” Prowl asked. “I know we need to give him a designation but my thoughts are out of order.”

“We got time.” The saboteur curled around his lover, and their creation, draped this arm over them both. Prowl’s systems gave a happy, low frequency hum of pleasure, between them the bitlet did the same. Soon they were, all three, in recharge together.


	10. Hidden Relationship One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As this was specially requested we have fic one of Hidden Relationship. This is a continued of Soulmates from last year.

Though they had bonded their sparks, Jazz and Prowl kept their relationship a secret. The Polihexian would have been happy to go public, to take his new sparkmate on dates, and to just live the best life he could because it could all be snatched away in an instant. But Prowl was not merely shy, he was wounded. Chromedome and Rewind had everything to blame for that, them and the Autobots cackling at their evil jokes. To be truthful, the saboteur hated living like this. He resented the secrecy, resented how deeply Prowl seemed to need it. Time he told himself would ease his partner into the ebb and flow of a normal, healthy relationship. Time would let Prowl feel Jazz’s spark against his own and he would know in spark and processor that the Polihexian cherished him for all that he was.

What if they did not have time? This questioned haunted the saboteur mega-cycle after mega-cycle. His reputation might have been of a mech who was happy and optimistic, but at spark Jazz was pragmatic. He had lost many a friend since the dawning mega-cycles of the war, and taken many a life, he knew nothing in this life was guaranteed. Jazz did not want to stand before Unicron or Primus and regret the life he did not live, and he did not want to stand at Prowl’s monument and mourn a live half lived. No, patient as he could be, the Polihexian was ultimately the restless sort, and as it was becoming clearer that his love might need an eternity before he felt safe living in the open. One thing Jazz was not going to do was wait an eternity to dance with Prowl at a party, and cuddle with him a movie. Before the stellar-cycle was out, before the quartex was out he wanted to live in a habsuite with Prowl, together with Prowl. If his mate would suffer it, he wanted a celebration honouring the joining of their sparks. They deserved it, Prowl deserved it.

Every time Jazz thought they took a step forward, they tumbled twenty backwards. Rewind or Chromedome would say something, do something, and set something or someone else off. They had long made a game of smirking or jeering whenever Prowl appeared. It took away, it seemed they had figured out that they did not want their latest rumour to come to Jazz’s attention. There was something phenomenally arrogant about thinking they could keep a rumour out of Ops’ audials. Really, who did these two think they were? Oh they had charisma, and they had friends who seemed to delight in their games, but maybe that was because they were happy Chromedome and Rewind had not turned their game on them. In any case, Jazz finally overheard the slag they were talking about, and confronted Prowl about it. His spark broke as he watched his lover deflate.

“It is not a real recording,” Prowl said, softly. “I... It is not my voice, it is but it is not.”

“Rewind,” Jazz replied, and he pulled the Praxian into his arms. “He can splice together anything he wants. They gotta know it ain’t real.”

“Someone will believe it. It has already spread into tactics, I saw two of my subordinates listening to the replay. They hardly bothered to contain their snickers. They are playing it like I am some sort of deviant.”

“Nothin’ deviant ‘bout a little bondage. He why ya were so shy to ask me to tie ya up?”

“He almost ruined it for me.”

“‘M sorry, Sweetspark.”

“He has told them I had him pay strangers to frag me. That I am so loose two triplechangers could frag me at once, and there would still be room for more. His latest rumour is that I got sparked up and do not not know the identity of the progenitor. A vorn ago he told them the only way I could get off was if I pretended he was Yoketron. Before that it was that I could only interface with the lights off. It does not matter how outlandish the story is, they will believe it because it amuses them to make a mockery of me. I am tired Jazz. Everywhere I look someone is laughing at me. They are placing bets over when I am going to pop!”

“‘M puttin’ a stop to this!” Jazz hissed. “They’re outta fraggin’ control.”

“You would only add fuel to the fire,” Prowl sighed. “They want me to react. They would want you to react.”

“Ignorin’em ain’t solved it. Lover, ‘m endin’ it... Trust me, it’s gonna be better soon.”

“I let you tie me up and frag me,” his lover voice dropped into a husky tone, and brought their helms together. “Of course I trust you.”

Jazz had a plan laid out for how he was going to unmask those slagtards for the sick little bullies they were, but as he stepped onto base the next mega-cycle, he stepped into a hurricane. Just joors after dawn, the saboteur marched into the brig to find out just what had set Smokescreen off. It dawned on him as he walked down the long hall that the betting pools that were an unsanctioned but open secret on base were the elder Praxian’s domain. Of course there was no way he would have been keeping this particular score on this bet. Someone very stupid must have gone to Smokescreen to place their bets, someone stupid enough to forget that the resident gamester was Prowl’s older brother. Well, his lover was not going to approve of his big brother’s actions but Jazz approved just fine. As he arrived at the sell holding his subordinate, Smokescreen raised a servo, the other he kept on his lap, the digits clear broken.

“One, I am not going to apologize, I am quite happy to serve my time. Two, when I get out, I’m going to beat him again, he didn’t cry nearly loud enough. Three, I don’t care if Rewind is a fourth my size, when I get my servos on him I will snap him in half.”

“Not real great things to confess if ya want out, Smokey,” Jazz replied.

“They have been making my brother miserable, since he enlisted,” the forensic psychologist hissed. “If I had known it was that twisted, that sick I would have laid them out vorns ago.”

“Prowl wanted to pretend it wasn’t happenin’, else he figured they would win.”

“As long as he’s miserable, they are winning. My brother is not a whore. My brother is a good mech, his only mistake was thinking he could trust that piece of scrap.”

“‘M gonna take care ‘o ‘em both.”

“Jazz, it doesn’t matter if you tell the whole fragging base you and Prowl are bonded. Chromedome and Rewind’s stories are so much more fun for those half-clocked refurbs.”

“‘M outtin’ for what they are. They been quiet ‘nough to keep it under Ironhide’s olfactory ridge, but that’s changin’. Prime’s gotta know too.”

“Why?”

“Because it might be the thing that keeps ya from gettin’ shipped of to Garrus 9.”

Optimus Prime called Jazz to his office just about the same moment the Polihexian was leaving the brig, the timing was so perfect, he doubted it was an accident. As he walked down the hall, Jazz saluted Red Alert who was no doubt up in his cave, watching the hundreds of cameras littering the base. He did not mind it if the Security Director was keeping tabs on him, or if he had listened in on his chat with Smokescreen. This slag was ending. Jazz walked into the Prime’s office with all the airs of a mech on a mission. If the Boss Bot was surprised by his swagger, he did not show it. Ironhide raised his browridge as the saboteur dropped into a chair without being issued an invitation. His lack of decorum and respect for protocol was almost universally known, but both mechs seemed to teek that something more was up.

“You’ve spoken with Smokescreen,” Optimus said.

“Sure did,” Jazz replied, swinging his ped as he crossed his legs. “Figure ya talked to Chromedome.”

“And all the witnesses in the mess,” the Prime confirmed. “They all said Smokescreen appeared out of nowhere and attacked Chromedome without any provocation.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say there wasn’t provocation. See between’em, Chromedome and Rewind, have been havin’ some fun at Prowl’s expense. Started out as slag talk now they’re on to revenge porn, ‘n a little rumour that Prowl was sparked up ‘n didn’t know the sire.”

“Anyone who’d believe that has bolts for processors,” Ironhide sneered.

“Some o’em do, ‘n maybe more o’em just like to see Prowl brought down a peg,” the Polihexian replied. Bodyguard and Prime glanced at each other. When a mechanism climbed the ranks as fast as the tactician had it was bound to breed jealousy. “Since they decided to take bets on this last scrap, some dumbaft went to place his bet wit Smokey. Not smart, forgettin’ they’re related ‘n all. Can’t say ‘m sorry. Chromedome had it comin’.”

“Ironhide will look into this,” Optimus Prime said. “You are clearly biased.”

“‘M bonded to the mech, fraggin’ right ‘m biased.”

“Bonded?” Ironhide gasped. “Yer fraggin’ with us. Y’re tellin’ us after twenty vorns workin’ together ya only just figured out ya matched?”

“I knew the moment I saw ‘m,” Jazz replied. “But he’d stopped lookin’ after Chromedome, after he broke ‘m. He still don’t want anyone to know. Figures I’ll get slagged next, like I can’t hold my own.”

“Congratulations,” the Matrix-Bearer said.

“I wanna be able to celebrate,” the saboteur said. “But he can’t as long as this his hangin’ o’er him. I think he don’t want them takin’ somethin’ beautiful ‘n makin’ it ugly for ‘m.”

“If there’s somethin’ to settle with’em I’ll settle it,” the aged Iaconian rumbled.

Ironhide was a mech of his glyph. Given his acrimonious relationship with Prowl, no one thought he was biased when he brought the golden couple in to answer for their behaviour. This was, of course, after he had hunted down the weakest link of their little gang and scared the mech into ratting them out with one measured glare. When Jazz returned to the brig he was pleased to see Smokescreen’s servo had been mended and Chromedome and Rewind were locked in cells a few doors down. Blaster was standing in front of Rewind’s cell door, when the Polihexian saw his friend he winced. The cassette-carrier was not going to be happy to learn what kind of scrap he had given emergence to. Sometimes, the truth sucked slag.

“Jazz, Mech, can ya explain to me what the frag’s goin’ on.”

“Rewind outta be the one to talk,” Jazz replied. “Or do ya want me to tell’m how ya been makin’ Prowl’s life miserable for vorns ‘cause he fragged Chromedome first. Or maybe it’s ‘cause it’s just Prowl whose memories he ain’t cut out? Did he share his memories so you had somethin’ to splice together so ya could make that sick audio tape? Or have ya been listenin’ in when we make love?”

“Rewind.” The disappointment in Blaster’s voice was tangible, and it brought Jazz no joy, but at least his friend knew the truth.

“But let’s be real, it all started wit ya, Chromedome, wit that rumour ‘bout his spark seal. Did ya believe’m Rewind? Or did ya spread that slag ‘cause ya were jealous ya lover still can’t get Prowl outta his helm?”

“Shut your fragging mouth,” Chromedome snarled. Jazz crossed his arms, and smiled at the mnemosurgeon, locked behind the energy field.

“Don’t tryin’ threaten me, ya weak strutted cogsucker. I got five ways I can unmake ya from here, ‘n that’s wit out strainin’ myself. Prowl likes rules though, needs them, order soothes that battle computer o’ his. Truth is, when ya asked him to bond, when ya convinced him to bear his spark it was all a trick. Ya knew ya wouldn’t match, ‘cause ya knew ya were the one without a servo print on yer spark chamber.”

“Shut your fragging mouth!” The Tagonian leapt at the forcefield, Jazz did not even flinch.

“Scattergun, Pivot, ‘n Mach all still had their sparks sealed when they died. Ya were never really were bonded, it was all in designation only. Just like it is wit Rewind. Ya ain’t showed ‘m yer spark yet, how ya been puttin’ that off. Ya know his ain’t sealed, cause Dominus Ambus had ‘m first...”

“Domey?”

“I’ll fragging ruin you.”

“Promises, promise,” the saboteur purred. “Feel free to look me up when ya get outta lock up. I’d love an excuse to finish what Smokey started.”


	11. Hidden Relationship Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This continues after Blackmail. Because I had a special request for the piece follow last year's Soulmates I decided to do a two for one day.

He had not known the dancer on the screen as Prowl. Pantera had been the Praxian’s stage designate, or maybe Prowl was the designation he gave himself when he left stripping and enlisted in the Enforcer. In his processor, Jazz brought up memories of his former roommate, and compared the face of the young Praxian he had roomed with to the Autobot SIC. They were the same. It was amazing how much the armour, and the expression could make the mech. His roommate had played up his fuller lower lipplate with a pouty smirk, and dazzled crowds with crystal clear berthroom optics. Prowl had that same mouth, but he kept it in a tight line, and he had the same pale optics but they were flinty and calculating. There was no question these were the same mech, Pantera had made good.

Jazz ran a servo down his face, he had fragged up big time. When he had seen the picture and recognized Prowl as Pantera, he should have fessed up to their shared history. But his processor had locked up, and his glossa had gotten all tangled. They both looked so different, he knew the Praxian did not recognize him. Prowl had known him as Folgare, and Folgare had quite a different from Jazz. All shiny silver and sharp edges, his visor of that era had been opaque black. Back then he had been trying to make a living with his music, with the occasional bit of robbery on the side. He had been fleeing Jazz, or more accurate, the crime syndicate he had emerged into, and he had gone to extremes to change his look.

Prowl had too, in his own way. His frame shape was much the same, the armour was heavier, the colouring simpler though no less sharp. When you looked at the tactician, you saw the Enforcer he had been, and the commander he had become. No one would look at him and see the stripperbot he had been, not even Jazz who had lived with him for a vorn. The Polihexian offlined his optics and brought Pantera up in his HUD. He remembered the shimmery filigree the Praxian had had tattoo over his entire protoform. There was no sign of it on him now. Maybe he had had them sanded off, a processes that was painless for armour, but for protoform? Ouch. Then again, he could see Prowl being committed enough to go through with it.

Frag did he ever screw up. If Jazz went after him now, and told him, Prowl would immediately jump to the conclusion that the saboteur was the blackmailer or in league with the fragger. He had watched the Praxian dance a few times, waiting for his own set, and Pantera/Prowl had danced in his sets a few times too, and he had been phenomenal. When he thought about it, all of it fit what he knew of the tactician now. Prowl locked himself in his officer for joors, even mega-cycles working on his latest strategy, he had trained at the range until each shot had been true. He had trained his frame the same way when he had danced. Living with him for a vorn, as Prowl had waited out the last vorn of his rental contract after his previous roommate had skipped out, the saboteur had enjoyed more than his share of private shows, as his roommate had tested new routines. Generally, these shows had led to nothing, but on occasion, when their engines had been revving, they had gone to berth or fragged on the couch. They had not been lovers, but more of friends with benefits. A vorn had been all the time Jazz had intended to stay in Praxus, and it had been. Jazz had packed up his things to move on to his next gig, this time in Kaon. When he had left Prowl had been packing the habsuite, having signed a contract for a smaller place, they had said goodbye, and that had been it.

Jazz looked at the picture, clearly an image capture from someone’s memory banks. It was blown up, a little grainy. Whoever had watched the show, and had somehow matched Pantera’s face to Prowl’s had not been in the front row. If he could just find the stupid fragger quickly, the saboteur could bring them in and settle this slag, and Prowl would never have to know they had a shared history. Except Jazz did not know how he was going to look at the Praxian and not see the dancer he had been. Frag all, Pantera... Prowl had been a stunner. He was less so now. His armour was bulky, his facial expressions, his field, made him feel entirely unapproachable. Now that he was seeing Pantera in Prowl, and maybe a little Prowl in Pantera, Jazz groaned and shook his helm. It was going to be a lot of fun trying to keep a professional distance until the shock wore off.

Prowl kept everyone at a distance. How much of that was his natural work ethic, and how much of that had been a fear of his past coming back to haunt him? Someone had figured it out? Who? If he had not figured it out, how could someone else have? Jazz had fragged him for the love of Primus? Damn it, now the Polihexian could hear Pantera/Prowl moaning his designation in that low, whisper that use to make his circuits burn. Frag. It was hard to believe the stoic, tight aft tactician was his former frag buddy, the images of the two mechs clashed. That would make it easier to keep a straight face, or so he hoped. Except it was starting to nag at him, that Prowl might keep himself so segregated not because he simply preferred it, but because he was afraid of losing everything he had worked for. So just what could Jazz do about it? To start, he could find the fragger trying to run Prowl out of Iacon. With that thought in his processor, Jazz set to work.


	12. Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEED THE WARNINGS. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.
> 
> Below is a scene of eluding to a forced abortion. If this is a problem for you, this ficlet is not for you.
> 
> Continues Doradus.

Though Jazz had followed Prowl to Iacon, he did not follow him home. As much as both mechs longed to live their lives together, they could not under Zeta Prime’s regime. Perhaps the Praxian’s grand-progenitor would not have cared, but somehow Prowl doubted it. Instead they lived completely apart, Prowl in the Translucentica Heights, as per the Prime’s will, the mermech found a studio habsuite near the docks. It was a debilitated tenement, closely surrounded by identical buildings in similar states of disrepair. Prowl loathed to have his lover live in such condition considering the beauty he had left behind, but Jazz did not mind in the least. Amongst the manual and disposable class mechanisms that served as his neighbours. Functionalism, and thus the caste system, was in theory defunct, but the Code of Law had hardly been amended, and for those lowest and poorest of Iacon’s citizens nothing had changed.

Jazz moved throughout the districts of Iacon, from the lowest to the highest with processor boggling ease. It appeared to Prowl that if his lover did not want to be see, he was not. He could not understand how you would not stop to stare at him, Jazz was beautiful. When he smiled at the tactician, it felt to Prowl like his spark would burst, when Jazz touched him, just so much as the stroke of his digits against Prowl’s palm he felt like he was home. They could not linger so long with each other as they had in Doradus, no one would celebrate their union here, but the world outside did not matter in the moments they stole together. While he was not incorrect in his self-analysis, Prowl was not a mech of leisure, he enjoyed sitting with Jazz, or laying with him, just barely touching, or tangled together. He could work like this easily, he could live like this forever.

Zeta Prime made good use of Jazz’s services. Though a need to follow the Praxian to Iacon, and to protect him from any fall out regarding the failure to secure an alliance with Doradus had compelled the Polihexian to make the Prime his offer, Jazz was not a mindless or remorseless killer. The Prime had enemies, even amongst those that on the surface he treated as allies, and he was pleased to send his new pet assassin after each and everyone of them. His targets had only been Decepticons at first, but as Zeta had become confident in Jazz’s obedience, he had begun to send him after Autobots, and finally Neutrals. Prowl had known it would happen, and he and Jazz had formulated a clever plan. While those deserving of death on any side of the political spectrum, the Polihexian was content to kill, those they deemed innocent were quietly relocated, Doradus did not mind the guests.

Perhaps Prowl could not temper his grand-progenitor, but with Jazz at his side he could at least do something. He knew he was not the only one in Iacon working to subvert Zeta Prime. Orion Pax, only an Enforcer, had been given control of the Prime’s security forces. On the ground he had seen the discontent, the hate of the citizens against the regime he had helped build. The Prime’s favourite had been in private meetings with the leader of the rebel factions. Zeta was unaware, Prowl was not, and Prowl kept this knowledge to himself. Though it might have been tempting to try and align himself with Orion Pax, the tactician knew that the favourite would likely brush off his overtures, and if they were revealed to his grand-progenitor, both their works would be at risk. The desire to be part of something was powerful for one who had spent most of his life alone. But he had Jazz, perhaps Prowl could not be part of Orion Pax’s grassroots rebellion, he and his lover could continue with their own.

They had a great deal at stake. Staring out the window at his habsuite, at the sprawling city below the Heights, Prowl stroked the tiny bump beneath his bumper. His forge had only just popped, if you were not feeling for it, it was easily missed, which was all for the best. He planned. In Functionalism creating out of bonding was absolutely banned, and terrible things were done to those who were caught. In theory, it was a matter of the resources required to forge a healthy newspark, something traditionalists declared required originator and progenitor. Prowl was not bonded but he was not alone in the forging of this little spark. Jazz was gone, dispatched by Zeta, but he would return before the Praxian’s carrying could not be disguised. There was no question he would not remain in Iacon for the carrying, he needed to take himself, and his lover, and the newspark within him out of the Prime’s reach. Functionalism had only been defunct in designation, but the Code was unchanged, and Prowl feared.

The cityscape blurred and Prowl wobbled on his peds, suddenly he felt terribly dizzy. Thinking he should sit, the tactician turned to walk to his couch, but his knees buckled. Slowly he sank to the floor. Even sitting upright was difficult, and Prowl slipped onto his side. He could not think. His opened his comms but his processor failed him, he was too fussy to enter Jazz’s ID. Treading through the sludge that were his neuro passages, Prowl laid on the floor of his habsuite, and waited for the dizziness to fade. Could it be a crash? No, his crashes were not like this, they came on much faster, and his helm did not hurt. Helpless and confused, he laid there as a ringing in his audials grew, and darkness crept in from the periphery of his vision. The door of his habsuite slid open, and the Praxian strained his optics to try and make out the intruders. He tried to speak but his vocalizer only clicked on and off. As the figures approached, his vision faded into darkness, and Prowl felt offline.

He did not known how much time had passed when he returned to consciousness, his memory banks were corrupted, but he did know where he was. The umber tiles and too bright lights told Prowl he was in the Citadel’s medical wing. Why? Static still clinging to the edges of his thought processes, the Praxian tried to think. Could he have commed his grand-progenitor in error? No. No, he knew he had never gotten his comms online, and it never would have occurred to him to call Zeta. Paramedics, perhaps, but never Zeta. Unconsciously, Prowl slid his servo up his abdomen and under his bumper, his protoform was perfectly flat, and perfectly smooth. His optics lit up and towering over him, six sensory panels extended making his figure all the more imposing, Zeta sneered. In his chassis an anguished keen built but it caught in Prowl’s throught. His grand-progenitor shook his helm at him.

“Prowl, you stupid slut. If I wanted you to breed I would arrange it myself.”


	13. Mistaken Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation from Blackmail in which things get arguably much work for Prowl.
> 
> And I am not even a little sorry.

Jazz had not presented Prowl with his suspects designation once he had completed the trace. Rather, the tactician found out he had brought Chromedome in to be questioned when he accidentally came across the interrogation already in process. Meister was someone who brought terror into the sparks of Decepticons, Meister was not unleashed on Autobots, but Jazz was plenty intimidating when he had the processor to be. Chromedome looked intimidated, in fact he looked downright scared. Prowl turned on the speaker so he could listen. He wanted to know why, needed to know why. True, their split had been acrimonious, and Prowl’s enlistment, some vorns after Chromedome’s had not been well received. But they had managed to coexist, largely because Prowl lived like a hermit, it was safer, easier than letting anyone close again.

“I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chromedome exclaimed. “I never sent that. I wasn’t there.”

“Mech, I know ya were there,” Jazz voice was firm, and uncompromising. Was he bluffing? “Ya came in a few times. Sat in the cheap seats, didn’t ya? Ya were workin’ at an oil bar while ya went to school there. Sometimes yer buddies ‘n ya would visit the club for a show. Ya always made sure one particular dancer was performin’.”

“Okay, so I went to the stripbonic club a few times. Nothing illegal about it. Me and some of my classmates would go. Pantera, he drew a crowd, we had a little fun, so what? Prowl never went with us. We never invited him, not like he would have gone.”

He did not know. Horror began to dawn on the Praxian and his frame started to quake. Chromedome, for all they had been lovers for vorns, had never made the connection between Pantera, his favourite stripperbot, and his Enforcer partner and berthmate. Prowl dove for the waste basket and purged. But Jazz knew. Jazz knew. The saboteur had seen him, had known he was a regular, had even known where he sat. There was only one way, it could only have been one mechanism. In all the vorns Prowl had danced in the club, they had only ever employed one Polihexian, a singer. Folgare, the tactician had danced with him, or rather, around him, for a number of his sets. When his idiot roommate had moved out, left him with too big a place, too high a rent, and a lease he could not break, Prowl, as Pantera, had offered the singer his spare room. They had gotten along well. Living together they had been able to practice their sets a little more intimately, the Praxian had been able to hone his moves on a living mech. Sometimes they had gone to berth together, just for a little fun.

Humiliation had Prowl fleeing the base with a single care for who might see him. Folgare, or rather Jazz, while he had placed the mech on his suspect list, he had not believed it, his former roommate’s designation had been on the list as a matter of procedure. There had been no reason, no motive he could think of that would see Folgare... Jazz intent on ruining his life. Even considering their interactions in since both had taken new, or returned to old, identities Prowl could not think of what would inspire the saboteur to blackmail him. What could he have done that would have the Polihexian running him out of the Autobots? Fair, they had quarrelled over their ultimately clashing styles of command and strategy, but they had found a balance, they had done good work together, good work for the Autobots. What could Prowl have done that was so terrible to motivate this betrayal.

He was not crying. Prowl stopped in his tracks and roughly wiped his face. In his life he had counted very few mechanisms as friends, Folgare had been the only one he had been able to look back on without bitterness or grief. Now he grieved, and he raged. Even with their bitter history it had felt like a horrific betrayal when all signs had pointed to Chromedome. This was worse. How was this worse? Folrgare and he had never been lovers, occasional berthmates, but never lovers. Chromedome, or rather Tumbler had he had been seriously committed for six vorns before they had terminated both their professional and physical relationship. Perhaps it was worse because betrayal was part and parcel to his memories with Chromedome, Folgare had always seemed true.

Prowl turned back to the Auto Base, digging into his spark for the anger that would overwhelm grief. He would not be forced out. Whatever twisted motivation had inspired this farce, the tactician was not going to see everything he had built for himself stripped away. Optimus Prime was certainly closer to his Third than his Second, but the Prime respected Prowl. This was a mech who had risen to primacy from some of the lowest origins, this was a mech who was fair. If the Praxian explained himself, if he defended himself, Optimus Prime would listen. He would listen because Prowl would not leave until he did. The Autobot Second in Command curled his servos into fists and lifted his chin in defiance, he would not be brought down so easily. Something struck his neck, and the tactician stumbled. Prowl raised a servo to his neck and felt the dart. An unmarked Convoy pulled up to the sidewalk, and the Praxian stumbled backwards. His doorwings detected someone’s approach and Prowl turned to face them. His battle computer fed his anti-virals and his firewalls, and tactician’s helm cleared. He was outnumbered, but the Autobot was not going to surrender without a fight. As his first opponent charged him, Prowl threw open his comms. The Convoy reached and caught him round the throat, and squeezed.

“Careful, Boss doesn’t want him damaged,” his smaller attacker hissed.

“So cuff’em before I have to pop his helm off,” the Convoy snapped back. Even though the far larger mech had him literally by the throat, Prowl struggled as the smaller mech tried to lock his servos in stasis cuffs. The Convoy gave him a little shake and the tactician saw stars. Before his helm could clear, his servos and peds were strained. “Toss him in the back. We’ve got a transport to catch.”

“Release me,” Prowl ordered, his voice raspy. The colossus had damaged his vocalizer. “There will be consequences...”

“Gag him too,” the brute snarled. “I don’t wanna hear him complain the entire trip.”

Struggling was useless, but Prowl struggled all the same. The little slagtard did not merely slap a vocal inhibitor on him, he forced a bit into the Praxian’s mouth, and secured the strap around his helm. Prowl cursed the mechs, though the glyphs only came out as garbled snarls. Prowl was secured in the Convoys hold, and left in the darkness. A lesser mech might have quaked with fear, but the tactician knew he was being monitored, and he would not so much as bend for these two. Rather, he turned inward, and planned. As he planned he tested the cuffs, and hoped he mind find away to break free. In the Convoy’s cab Prowl followed in his HUD as they turned left, and left again, taking the winding highway to the Hub. The Convoy did not transform, the Praxian was not released from his captor’s hold, the Convoy drove up a ram, and secured his breaks. A short time later, Prowl felt them take off, to where, he could not begin to guess. Joors passed, and he made no progress with the cuffs. Whenever he got close to sinking with their frequency, it changed. They were far more advanced than the cuffs he had utilized while in service to the Enforcers.

Though he did give up on the cuffs, he did not give up. When he knew where about he was being taken, when he knew by whom he had been taken captive, Prowl would need a plan. By the time he felt the atmospheric pressure change, as the transport prepared to land, the tactician had a thousand plans. One, he had to hope, would serve his purposes, but even with a thousand different strategies saved and filed in his battle computer, Prowl knew it was likely known would serve his purposes, here wherever here was. This was not cause to panic or lament, the Praxian could write a thousand more, while his frame was immobile, his processor was not. So long as he could think, he could plan, and so long as he could plan, there was hope. The Autobots would look for him, he was Second in Command, even with the scandal Jazz at rained down on him, he knew too much, was much too valuable to abandoned. Unless this too was part of the saboteur’s game. His spark sank at the thought.

As the Convoy drove off the transport, Prowl memorized the route. It did not feel familiar to him, but that was not particularly high on his list of concerns. When he got himself free, he could find his way back. Some how, he would find his way to freedom. He might suffer in the mean time, he might be tortured, but so long as he survived, the Praxian promised himself he would not surrender to despair. Even as he was repeating this mantra to himself, Prowl’s frame tensed and tensed. The Convoy parked, and this time he transformed. His captive did not move. One half of his processor wanted the slagtard to throw the doors open so the tactician could finally learn who was responsible for his capture. But one half clung to darkness, ignorance might be a blessing yet. A bream after the Convoy park, the doors to his trailer flew open, and a mech in resplendent, angular crystal in icy blue strolled up the ramp. All at once Prowl knew where he was and who had paid the fools to steal him off the streets of Iacon. More over, he knew that it had not been Jazz who had been blackmailing him.

“Ah, Pantera, it has been much too long,” Cryotek grinned like a turbofox as he spoke. Still gagged, Prowl could only glare. The crime lord of Axiom Nexus clucked his glossa. “So bland. It’s no wonder you were able to keep up your charade for so long. This won’t do at all. Summon Needlenose, I want my new headliner brought back to his glory.”

Glory, Prowl’s fuel tank clenched. Dancing had not been a glory, it had been a means to an end. It had been a natural choice, he had learned to dance with his procreators when he could only barely stand. Members of an obscure cult, they had treated dancing as a means of worship. Rather than serve functions as society demanded, they had performed on street corners, and at festivals with other cultists. Though he did not remember what had triggered the crackdown, he remembered being taken from them, with all the other cultists’ creations, and left in a foundling centre. Music had been banned, dancing too. When Prowl had seen the stripbonic club’s ad, it had suited what subversiveness remained in his spark. Dancing was a means to ruin, the caretakers had said. Discipline and honest work were the only path to a dutiful life. Prowl had turned dancing as a means to take the life of duty he had desired. Dance was not a means of worship for him, the tactician believed in no gods. His procreators would be rolling over in their graves, if they had them, but of course they did not. Their remains had been deposited in the smelting pit, as was Praxus’ way. He still did not know how they had died.

Cryotek escorted Prowl to the washracks, the cogsucker’s personal washracks no doubt. Though he looked, with optics and doorwings, for any escape, even if he could not break free in this moment, but he saw none. The crime lord of Axiom Nexus had built his lair like a maze. Murals covered the walls and ceiling of the washracks, Prowl could see they had been signed by Bricolo, it would not surprise him if Cryotek had paid that artist to paint the room. A Seeker, an unknown to the tactician, appeared a bream or so after the mobster had summoned him. The designer circled Prowl as he stood on a platform, in the middle of the room, chained at his ankle, and servos still cuffed.

“Can you fix this mess?” Cryotek asked.

“Easily, of course,” Needlenose said. “New armour will solve the worst of it, more fashion forward paint, and of course that junk needs to be stripped.”

“Junk?” The mobster asked. The Seeker stepped forward, dipped a cloth in solvent and whipped it down Prowl’s arm. He could not help but flinch, and he covered up the fear in his spark with a vicious glare. Needlenose ignore him, and he only stepped back when he had unveiled the tattoo running from the Praxian’s shoulder to his digit tips.

“Junk.”

“Ah. I had been afraid they had been sanded off. Beautiful. Well go on, strip him, and dispose of that hideous armour. I’ll need you to craft something entirely new... Blue I think, like before. The red chevron can stay, I do rather like it.”

Needlenose did as he was ordered and he stripped every plate of armour from the tactician. Nudity did not make him flinch, though internally he recoiled. Though the stasis cuffs had been removed, Prowl knew better than to try and attack. There were two of them, and still guards beyond the door. As much as he was loathed to, the Praxian obeyed the commands of his captor. When he was told to step into a tub of solvent, he did. As Needlenose scrubbed his plating, Prowl turned inward. None of his plans had considered Axiom Nexus, or Cryotek, and so he planned anew. It would not kill him to dance while he found his way out, or until the Autobots tracked him to the Blue Destroyer. Knowing Jazz had not had a servo in this was an enormous comfort. The saboteur extraordinaire would lead the hunt for him. Prowl believed this with all of his spark.

“Much better.” When Cryotek spoke, Prowl’s focus turned outwards again. He did not look down, he knew what he looked like. Each piece of the complex web of tattoos that covered him the corners of his optics down to his peds had been carefully chosen in honour of his procreators. “Polish him until they shine, Needlenose. Take your time.”

The polishing was horrific. Most mechanisms did not polish their protoforms, only their armour. It was incredibly intimate, and incredibly violating. Prowl did not shrink, he summoned every last drop of pride and stood stock still, like a soldier on parade. He was a soldier, he was a commander, and he swore to himself it would take more than this to take him to his knees. It turned his tank to see how pleased the mobster was by his transformation. There was no mistaking the lust in his gaze. Cryotek had look at him with those optics before, many times before. The slagtard had been a regular at the Praxian stripbonic club Prowl had worked at, and from the very first time the Axiom Nexian had watched him perform, he had been fixated. Though Prowl had returned every gift, declined every advance, Cryotek had never actually given up. It had pleased the retiring dancer to leave the club the last time, knowing the regular would return to see him and have no way to find him. Except it turned out Prowl had been wrong. With his work done, Needlenose left, leaving the tactician alone with the mech who had been obsessed with him all those vorns ago.

“I published the last of my photos to the datanet,” Cryotek said, with cruel smirk. “You’re already going viral. Naturally, Optimus Prime will accept your resignation. No one will be surprised when you refuse to show your face on base to deliver your notice in person.”

“You do not have my photos,” Prowl replied, forcing himself to remain cool and collected even as the urge to scream became difficult to resist. The tactician was powerless to refuse the mob boss anything, he willed his struts to hold him straight and strong.

“I paid a rather desperate young mech to be rebuilt in you image.” The Axiom Nexian ran a digit up the Autobot’s bare mid drift, tracing the delicate whirl of his tattoo. It made Prowl cringe ever so slightly, despite his attempts to keep himself still. From the loathsome mech’s smirk, he had not missed the quiver of his plating. “Right down to these. I have to admire your commitment. I’d thought you must have had your protoform sanded, but instead you’ve been painting yourself, what... every orn? And you’ve done it flawlessly. You won’t be painted again. These catch the light so beautifully when you dance. I want the Blue Destroyer’s customers to get the full affect.”

“I will not dance for you.”

“You will. You see, Pantera. You don’t have a choice. Either you’ll dance for my customers, and give them as fullsparked a performance as you ever did, or you’ll serve them in another manner.”

Prowl froze as his captor cupped his bared array, his processor stalled. Cryotek traced the tattoos here, and ran his thumb over the dock of his sheathed spike, and then lower still. His spark raced, and the Praxian stared ahead as he struggled to keep himself from hyperventilating. He had committed himself to never selling his frame. Even in the beginning when the tips had been so tempting after his tuition had come due, Prowl had never sucked a spike, or taken one in his valve that he did not take freely. Many repeat customers had requested these services behind sealed doors, Cryotek more persistently than most, he had always refused. In fact, the Praxian had never interfaced with a single customer, no amount of gifts or praise had convinced him to lower his standards. When the urge had come over him, he had interfaced with other dancer, or Folgare. He wanted to purge.

“That’s right, Pantera. You’ll dance for me. You’ll make me a fortune.”

The Praxian did not vent a sigh when Cryotek pulled his servo back, he had been spared the ultimate degradation but for how long? If the mobster did not rape Prowl himself, sooner or later one of his clientele would offer him enough incentive to see him rent the tactician out. After it happened once, it would happen again. And again. It would happen until Prowl was used up, fit for nothing but the gutters. He did not shudder at the thought. Vorns working alongside Special Operations had taught the Praxian a few tricks, he could escape. No, he would escape. Jazz. Would Jazz buy the resignation? Would he buy the pictures? Or would he see them for fakes, would he guess what had happened? Would he come? A fresh new hope filled Prowl better than that faint hope of escape. Even if his former berthmate bought the scam, he would not leave well enough alone. No, he would feel compelled to convince Prowl that he could and ought to continue on as Optimus Prime’s SIC. When he could not find Prowl in his habsuite, when he could find no trace of the Praxian in Iacon, he would start the hunt. Prowl only needed to survive long enough for the saboteur to trace him to Axiom Nexus.

Please, Primus do not let him take too long.


	14. Bookstore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bookstore. This is connected to nothing.

Being a single originator was a challenge. More of a challenge for Prowl in many ways than forothers, his work was demanding, erratic, the joors often long, even now that Enforcer Command had deigned to make concessions to him, if begrudgingly. Prior to giving emergence, Prowl had been on the fast track to a promotion and a command, but with the breakdown of his relationship with Tumbler, and the emergence of his creation, utterly alone, the upward course of his career had taken a sharp dive. At least he still had his function, that had not been guaranteed. In the vorns since Smokescreen had emerged his originator had worked the patrol beat, rather than metaforensics where he had once excelled. Some mega-cycle very far from now, Prowl fully intended to break his way back into that department, but for the time being, with his creation still young and still in need of his stable presence, the Enforcer served his community and his function where he could.

Smokescreen had gone through a rebellious and angry streak the previous in the few vorns. Prowl thought it was directly linked to the joors he had been expected to work. Some mega-cycles he had gone to work, and come home all without seeing his creation, except to kiss his helm as he recharged. It had been the Pit for the originator, and maddening for his sparkling. Clever Smokescreen had discovered quickly that when he got into trouble at school, they called Prowl, and Prowl naturally came. Everyone had been frustrated, Smokescreen, Prowl, the school, Command. When his little mechling had finally exploded, full of angry tears, at how terrible he felt, how unwanted. His own progenitor had refused to know him and now his originator was doing the same. Prowl had cried too knowing how deeply his absence had hurt Smokescreen. He had promised to do better, and he had asked his creation to make the same promise.

They had both kept their promises. Prowl had dug into the most obscure notes and amendments to the Enforcer Code and he had found a clause that guaranteed his right to stable work joors during his creation’s minority. If he bonded, he would lose the privilege, but after Tumbler, why would he go through that again? Command had not been happy, had they wanted to offer Prowl these joors, they would have, but the clause was ironclad, and the single procreator had threatened to go to the tribunal if they did not give him what he needed, or if they took any retaliatory action. The transfer to community enforcement had been retaliatory, there was not doubt there, but it did best fit the joors he needed to work to be present in his creation’s life, so he went to work, and he did not complain. For his part, Smokescreen’s conduct in school immediately improved once Prowl was once again available to him. This past vorn he had earned perfect scores in every subjected, a better report card than his originator had ever earned. He had done so well, Prowl had offered him a reward, and Smokescreen had chosen a trip to the bookstore.

Prowl had the ornend off, and it was a beautiful mega-cycle to spend out with his creation. After the bookstore the originator planned a picnic in the park. His creation deserved the treat, and he thought he did as well. They stepped off the transport and walked down the cheerful street to the little bookstore Smokescreen loved. It was a small establishment, compared to others, a family owned operation. The Conjunx Endura who owned and operated it appeared to be total opposites. Backburner was a cantankerous old mech who liked to sneak Smokescreen treats when he thought Prowl was not looking, and Spin-Out was a jovial and flamboyant “artiste”. Smokescreen adored them both. More than once while originator and creation browsed, the Enforcer had witnessed the bookstore keeper slink into the care for a mug of pressed energon, and kiss. Prowl could not help but feel a little jealous. He had wanted that. He had thought he had that, but Tumbler had cut them out of his spark and out of his procressor. How a mech could do that? The Praxian could never hope to understand. Where he was now, Prowl did not know, and he did not care. That slagtard had left a gaping would in both his and their creations sparks. If he ever did try to return, the originator would spit in his face. He would not return, and even if he did, he would not know them, the self inflicted mnemosurgery had been quite successful. At least Prowl never needed to worry about splitting custody with the loathsome mech, he had lost all rights to Smokescreen under Praxian law by doing what he had done.

“I hear music!” Smokescreen exclaimed as he ran up to the door. “Oh! Someone’s playing the cyberviolin.”

“I imagine then there is no harm in stopping to listen,” Prowl replied, feeling a tug of guilt at his spark.

His creation was especially drawn to that instrument. Cyberviolins, even sparkling sized ones, were terribly expensive and the originator could not afford to buy or to even rent one, let alone to pay for lessons. Smokescreen raced into the cafe side of the store, and stood in rapture in front of the busker. Prowl followed after him, and froze in surprise when he found he recognized the musician. Early the previous vorn, Petrex had outlawed busking and panhandling. Up until then this Polihexian had been a regular in the park that sat in the centre of Prowl’s beat. He had warned the musician about the new law before he could be caught up in the crackdown. The mech had thanked him, packed up and gone, the Enforcer had not expected to see him again, had hoped not to for the mech’s sake. From the sign above his set up, the cafe and he had come up with a partnership, the busker provided music and entertainment to their customers and he had a legal and stable source of tips. What had he called himself... Oh yes, Jazz.

Smokescreen swayed to the music, and appearing bemused by his young admirer, the Polihexian played just for him. That was kind. Seeing his creation was safe and entertained, Prowl made his way to the cafe’s counter. It was always the same. Backburner managed the bookstore, and Spin-Out the cafe. Prowl did not have to place an order, his particular brew of energon was already simmering. As much as the barista/chef claimed it offended his honour to brew energon this way, he always brewed it for the single originator. Prowl ordered for Smokescreen, and after he glance over to see the musician still performing or his creation, the Praxian asked Spin-Out for a cube of whatever Jazz favoured. Once the energon had been poured, Prowl carried the tray over to wear Smokescreen was still hovering. He lowered it, softly, and removing one plated dunker, and one mug of cobalt energon from the tray and place it on the table next to where the musician was set up. The Polihexian dipped into a dramatic bow of thanks, still teasing music from his cyberviolin’s strings, but then he straightened, and lowered his bow. He smiled like a mech who was seeing an old friend for the first time in eons.

“Officer Prowl, this your mechlin’?” Jazz asked.

“Yes, Smokescreen, this is Jazz,” Prowl replied. “He was a regular on my patrol.”

“Your origin was my favourite copbot,” the musician said, grinning at the mechling who looked at him with something akin to hero workship. “Thanks for the tip, not just talkin’ ‘bout the energon.”

“I am pleased you found a new location. Smokescreen, take a seat, perhaps Jazz would like a break.”

“Not a bad idea. Mega-cycle out wit yer ‘creator, Smokescreen?”

“I got a perfect score, so I get to pick a book. I’m going to find one on magic tricks.”

“Or really, if ya got the time, I can show ya a few.”

“Really? Origin? Do we have time?”

“This is your mega-cycle, Smokescreen. You have all the time you want.”

If he had ever had cause to arrest Jazz, Prowl did not believe he would tolerate this spontaneous interaction. As it was, the Enforcer felt tense. He could think of no reason for the Polihexian to be kind to him or his creation, except for help out of a ticket. Simple kindness, or gratitude might have been possibilities as well, but Prowl was wary. What harm could the musician do while he was right here? In any case, there had never been any complaints about his conduct in the park and Praxians were notoriously xenophobic. If Jazz had done the littlest thing untoward, it would have been reported to the Enforcers. Slowly, Prowl relaxed, finding his guard charmed away by the foreign spark. Smokescreen was clearly besotted. Even when more customers came in, when he ought to have resumed playing to earn his tips, the Polihexian showed Prowl’s dearspark another trick.

“Why not go find your book, Smokescreen,” Prowl suggested as the cafe became increasingly packed. “Jazz must want to get back to work.”

“Okay, Origin.”

“He’s a clever mechlin’,” Jazz said as he lifted his violin. “Perfect scores ‘cross the board. Can’t say I ever managed.”

“Neither did I.”

Prowl followed his creation into the bookstore in time to see Backburner slip him a treat. It was a ritual Smokescreen adored, and one the originator saw no good reason to put a stop to. He browsed the datapads aimlessly, his processor caught up in other things. Even if he reduced his energon consumption but half, he could not hope to afford the rent on one of those instruments. The means he could think of to afford cyberviolin lessons for his creation would be to take a second job, or to work an obscene amount of overtime, but then where would he have time for Smokescreen? Sometimes he thought he might see a matchmaker, and contract himself to a new mate. Certainly a stranger’s choice could not be worse than his own. If he could get himself bonded to a mech with a decent job, Prowl could give Smokescreen the things he deserved. But there was no guarantee that such a mech would be kind to his creation, and Prowl felt a little like a whore for considering it.

“Somethin’ on yer processor, Prowl?” He had told the musician to use his designation. Still, the familiarity felt peculiarly intimate.

“Nothing significant,” Prowl lied. He had many things on his processor, most of them Smokescreen.

“Not a great liar.”

“I usually am... I would give him the world. I would give him everything. I stretch our shanix every month to budget for just one outing.”

“His ‘genitor ain’t ‘round I guess.”

“His progenitor severed our bond while I was giving emergence to him. We both meant into shock. He nearly killed us because he did not want to be Conjunx Endurae any longer, and he did not want to raise a sparkling with me. Tumbler has never been a part of Smokescreen’s life.”

“That’s... That’s just wrong. Sick ‘n wrong.”

“He has this crater in his spark where his progenitor should be. I have not always been available enough for him. I am trying to do better for him. The less I work, the less I can do for him.”

“I ain’t an expert on sparklings but he’s gonna remember the time ya spent wit ‘m more than the things ya bought ‘m.”

“You are trying to make me feel better.”

“Hope it’s workin’. My origin raise me ‘n my brother alone. It was hard for ‘m. Lookin’ back I see how often he went without for our sakes. I see the same in ya. Ya bought’m a dunker, ya bought me one, but ya only got yerself the smallest cube.”

“Y’re a good origin, Mech.

“I found it, Origin!” Smokescreen ran up, a datapad clutched in his arms. “Backburner said it was on sale too.

It might have been, but there were good odds that the old mech had cut Smokescreen a deal, before sneaking him another treat. Of course, Backburner would deny it if Prowl confronted him, and the originator knew better to leave it alone. For all his sour exterior, the bookstore’s owner had a soft spot for sparklings, and Prowl had the sense to be grateful for his kindness. There were three mugs on the table Jazz had claimed, one filled withe sweet, warmed energon, one with cobalt energon, and one with the rocket fuel Prowl preferred. Guilt told him to decline, pride told him to decline. The musician smiled, a quirky half smile and invited them to sit, so Smokescreen could show him the book. Now that was a good trick. His creation bound into his share, Prowl followed, only a little resentful that he could be so easily played.

Jazz sat the violin on his lap as he went through the book with Smokescreen. Prowl drank the fuel that had been purchased for him. As his creation and the Polihexian flipped through the book, Spin-Out came by and placed a dunker in front of Prowl. Before he could call Spin-Out back, Jazz nudged his ped, and the Praxian looked back at the musician with confusion. He smiled, and turned back to Smokescreen, and Prowl looked down at his plate. The mech had to have greater need than the Enforcer, even considering the demands of providing for a growing sparkling, but he bought them, him fuel. Jazz must have wished someone had done this for his originator, or perhaps someone had, and he was passing on the kindness. Whichever it was, Prowl took the dunker, the fried energon goody was hot from the oven, and lightly dusted with rust powder, his favourite. Smokescreen looked across the table to him and grinned as he glance down at the dunker and up to his originator’s face. Oh. He had asked...

“Ya like my cyberviolin?” the musician asked, Prowl followed his gaze to Smokescreen face.

“It sounds so pretty,” Smokescreen said. “I wish I could learn.”

“Well, I can teach ya,” Jazz replied. Prowl thought his spark might actually of guttered.

“Really?” Smokescreen asked, his doorwings fluttered with excitement. He looked to Prowl. “Origin?”

“I cannot afford an instrument,” the originator replied, feeling angry, and helpless and...

“I got one his size,” the Polihexian declared. “‘N I run cheap.”

“Please Origin? Please?”

“I... How am I supposed to say no?”

The other mech just shrugged. “Ya ain’t.”


	15. Gods/Goddesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gods and Goddesses follows Blackmail. No gods are involved but we get some insight into the religion Prowl emerged into.

The time it took to manufacture the armour to Cryotek’s specifications delayed the Praxian’s debut. For his part, the mobster seemed to feed on the anticipation, and he poured a small fortune in an ad campaign, and commissioned his bartender to mix a drink specifically in Prowl’s honour, or rather, Pantera’s. Prowl of course wanted none of this honour but what pray tell could he do? Cryotek made him sample it, the tactician hated it, loathed to have his designation, even if it was only one he had used for his dancing, attached to it. He outright loathed that he had inspired the sickeningly sweet engex. Worse still, his captor had forced him to turn his fuel moderation chip off, to make him feel the intoxicant’s full effects. Sweet as it might have been, the drink was potent, and it had sent the tactician’s helm spinning. Was that how Cryotek saw him, intoxicating and sweet?

As he waited for the inevitable, Prowl found himself spending considerable time staring at his reflection, optics tracing the tattoos his captor was so enamored by. Cryotek saw them as an ornament, a dancer’s clever trick to stand out, they were something altogether different. Prowl brought a digit to his lower lip, and looked at himself in the mirror. They were a tribute his procreators. Once he had come of age and had left that oppressive foundling centre, he had dug through the public records until he had uncovered their fates. They had been purged, along with all their kin, sent to the Institute, labeled degenerates, the very same mega-cycle he and all the other sparklings had been taken away to the foundling centre. Though he had dug still deeper, Prowl had never found another trace of them. All he could surmise was that they had never left the Institute. In his spark he knew, had known they had died, the spark always knew. But with this muddied confirmation had come a need to pay some tribute, there was no monument for them, and so he had decided to use his frame to be exactly that.

As with all brothers and sisters in the Cult of Light, Prowl’s procreators had been covered in tattoos, not just their protoforms but their armour had been etched as well. Their markings had been more saturated, his originator’s in red, and his progenitor’s in black. Prowl had pulled the images from his memory, paid a mnemosurgeon to dig them out, and had replicated pieces from both his progenitor and his originator’s frames onto his own, weaving them and other archaic pictographs together to create a single unified whole. His tattoos were all done in rhodium, nearly the same shade as his natural sentio metallikato, but with a brilliant shine when polished even a little. Subtly had been important, they had been muted enough to go unnoticed, especially when he dabbed them with a little matte paint. They had not been done to catch the light on a stage, that had been an unexpected boon, of sorts. While his manager had been pleased with them, and had encouraged the young dancer to play them up, doing so had felt a little bit like a betrayal.

He had completed the final piece when he had received his data entry certificate. Grueling overtime joors, and minimal fuel had afforded him the credits needed to get the work done. He wondered, as he looked into optics he remembered being compared to his progenitor, if they would have been horrified to know he had made a life in first the law enforcement and then the military? That he had earned his living as a dancer would not have troubled them, though they might have been saddened that he had danced to entice rather to worship. They would have been offended by the scantness of his armour, and the removal of it during a show. Because they had not been buymecha, they had snapped this to more than one mechanisms in the twilight joors after a festival… he remembered... Prowl dropped his servo to his lap, and folded both against knees. They were dead, they could not know, he did not believe in the Light, or the Well. He tugged at the sparkling bands around his wrists. Cryotek had described them as cuffs meant for a harem dancer. If the Praxian tried to leave the room he had been assigned, they would surge like stasis cuffs, and render him inert. Unless he could get them off, the tactician had no hope of escaping on his own.

Prowl paced around his pretty little cell in a slow, measured pace. Had they prayed? When he had been taken, ripped away from his originator, they had screamed, and cried... they had resisted… he remembered. Prowl remembered his originator screaming that they would get him back. They had died in the Institute… had they prayed? Even as his thoughts turned melancholy, the tactician did not show it on his faceplates or in his stride. Cryotek was surely watching, and Prowl would not give him the pleasure of his fear or his shame. That mech thought he had kidnapped an uppity dancer, he had captured a soldier, a survivor.

Praxus was gone. Megatron had destroyed it in a single, brutal attack. Though Optimus Prime had tried to make Prowl take leave, he had refused. When all of Iacon had stopped to hold a memorial, he had hidden away in his office, and worked. They called him cold sparked, or drone sparks, not all of them, but enough. They could not understand. Though Prowl could mourn the innocent in a detached way, he could not mourn the state, or the culture that had seen his procreators and his culture stripped away from him. It had not been a peaceful beacon of arts and culture, it had been a totalitarian regime concealed by a pretty facade. When Tumbler had wanted to move to Iacon and to serve the Enforcers there, Prowl had been happy to follow, happy to leave. Even after their relationship had imploded, the Praxian had never considered returning “home”. Even now that it was gone, and the choice was gone, he had no regrets.

To the Praxian’s displeasure, Needlenose completed the new armour in only a couple of mega-cycles. A small part of Prowl’s spark withered, he had hoped the Autobots would retrieve him before this. He ignored the voice in his spark that feared he had been abandoned, and he held tight to the belief that Jazz, wherever he was, was looking for him. The designer install the armour over Prowl’s protoform, it was worse than anything Pantera had worn. It was blue as Cryotek had ordered, the colour of ice, paler still than Cryotek’s own. It was the colour of Prowl’s optics. The crystal had been carved so thin that it left absolutely nothing to anyone’s imagination, and it was missing the piece that would cover his spark chamber, the tactician recognized the style. He was meant to bend, to shake his chassis and let mechs place their shanix in this pocket. Prowl thought he might purge.

“A final touch,” that slagtard said, excitement dripping from his vocalizer, excitement and lust.

Through holes in the armour Prowl had not seen, Cryotek inserted curved bars. They magnetized to the old mounts on the Praxian’s protoform. The mobster looped his servos around the bars and yanked Prowl down from the pedestal. He stumbled, his doorwings flared back. If his charge had been up. It might have felt good, a pain to feed pleasure, but his charge could not have been lower. It was painful, it was violating. Clinging to anger and pride Prowl did not flinch, he glared up at the loathsome Axiom Nexian. Cryotek let go of the bars, and stroked his captive’s pursed lips.

“One here would be lovely.” He caught one of the tactican’s doorwings and stroked the smooth edge. Though his sensors interpreted the sensation and pleasant, Prowl’s processor and fuel tank rebelled. Still, he glared imperiously as the mech. “I saw concubines with piercing through these. I never could get an appointment with one. Praxians are, or were such xenophobes. Magnets will do for now.”

Prowl felt Cryotek latch false piercings to his doorwings, the pressure teased his circuits, energon rose in his throat, and the Praxian willed it down. His captor fondled his doorwings, and his chassis, tweaking the bars on his chassis, and the false piercings on his doors. Terror fed nausea and it was all Prowl could do not to purse everything in his tank. He felt Cryotek’s hot vents on his back and he told himself to endure. From his chassis the mob boss’s servos ran down the tactician’s bared mid drift, and rubbed firmly over the flimsy crystal panel. No. No. No. No. The mantra became louder and louder until he was screaming it in his helm. Endure. Endure.

“Open.”

No. No. No. No.

“Open, or I open it for you.”

The armour slid away, the urge was there, but Prowl did not weep, and he did not scream. Again, Cryotek traced his array. Despite the slagtard’s ministrations the Autobot's spike was docked and his valve aperture was narrowed and dry. Revulsion at what was being done to him kept his charge at nil. From the frustration pouring off the mech, his captor was not pleased. Cryotek was not so easily dissuaded, He tweaked Prowl’s doorwings, tugged at those bars, and stroked insistently at the Praxian’s dry valve rim. All he wanted to do was run, to hide, to purge. A plea caught in his throat. His spark screamed it but his processor kept it back. The mobster wanted it. There was no question he would be thrilled to hear Prowl beg. Not yet, he would not beg yet.

“You’ll get hot for me yet.”

No.

“Pressurize.”

“No.”

“Pressurize.”

“There’s trouble on the floor,” an undesignated mech said as he stepped into Prowl’s cell. The Autobot could have wept with relief.

“Black Shadow asked for you.”

“I suppose pleasure will have to wait.”

Prowl barely managed to keep himself together to see the door latch before he lunged for the basin in his washracks and purged every drop of energon in his tank. Endure. The crystal armour clicked like a chime as he shook, Cryotek would think of it as music. Especially if in harmony with his pleas. Tank still rolling, he rinsed out his mouth, and spat. Endure. Prowl feel his digit touching. He purged again. They would come, he promised himself. It could even have been them causing trouble on the floor… No. If that were the case he was as damned as before. Even if they did not come in time to save him from one rape, they would still come, they would come eventually, he could endure until then. Cryotek would not break him, Prowl would not shatter like the crystal armour he wore. Life had made him hard, it had made him strong.

Whatever disruption had called for the bar owner/mobster’s personal touch took long enough that Cryotek only returned in time to escort Prowl to the stage. The Praxian could not help but feel enormous relief. Even if it was just the briefest delay. As they approached the stage from the back, Prowl could not stop himself from digging in his peds. From the coils around his wrists he felt a great shock, pain flooded his circuits. It cleared, mercifully it cleared. Cryotek stared down at him for a nanoklik, and taking him by the arm, pulled him firmly forward. There was noting the tactician could do to stop this. No clever plan to pull off a last nanoklik miracle. Prowl was going to have to dance for the mobster’s leering audience.

“If you think you’ll get away with standing about like a mannequin, you are sorely mistaken,” the mobster warned. “You are going to dance like you never left stage. You are going to give them their credits’ worth. Or you’ll make it up to them in other ways. Do you understand.”

“I understand.”

***

“Jazz you gotta see this!” Jazz turned to see what had Sideswipe so bent out of shape. He stood, leaving Chromedome without a glyph. The Red Terror was a prankster at the best of times and a miscreant at the worst but he well enough not to interrupt an interrogation unless it was dire.

“Whatcha got, Sides?”

“Look at this!” Sideswipe pushed a data pad into Jazz’s servos. “It's all over the datanet. It’s gone viral!”

Jazz was about to ask what was so important about a viral video or image when he looked down. His first inclination was to throw the fragging thing against the wall, but the saboteur, barely, just barely managed to beat back the urge. It was from the blackmailer, who else could have sent this? Who else would have wanted to. Prowl, or Pantera, whoever he was in his spark, had told him he never interfaced on the job. There was no payout great enough to tempt him to take that road. When he had not been dancing, or practicing, the Praxian had been studying. With his skill, Prowl could have danced for vorns, maybe even toured the clubs, but he had always said that dancing was just a means to an end. The mech in the picture was hovering over a hard spike, array exposed, valve dripping lubricants. Promissory notes were tucked into what little armour remained, and into the narrow crack of his spark chamber. The face was Prowl’s, no one would mistaken that face.

“We went looking for him, give him a heads up but he’s gone!” The red twin said, and as he spoke, Sunstreaker came jogging up, nodding his helm in grim agreement.

“He’s not in his office, Prime’s office, the range, or his habsuite. He’s not answering his comms. He’s just… gone.”

Alarm screamed in Jazz’s helm. As smart as Prowl was, the mech took self-sufficiency to a neurotic level. Having connected Prowl to Pantera, now it all made sense. When Jazz had seen customers getting too grabby with the Praxian he had tried to step in, but Prowl had generally brushed him off. Even after they had gotten a little closer, Prowl had been clear, he could and would take care of himself. Had he uncovered the blackmailer and gone to confront them? It was something he would do. That was why Jazz had elected to bring Chromedome in for questioning without first alerting the SIC. He had wanted to get the answers out of the mnemosurgeon before he gave his report to Prowl. But it had not been Chromedome… no… someone had probably framed him. Somebody had been watching close enough to know who to frame.

“Spring Chromedome,” Jazz ordered. “Alert Prime. ‘M gonna search Prowl’s place ‘n see if there’s any trace o’ where he coulda gone.”

The Twins nodded, and split, already deciding between themselves who would fulfill which task. Jazz ran. He had never been to Prowl’s place… his place here, and the Polihexian wondered as he merged onto the highway, taking a break neck pace, if his old roommate’s style had remained the same. Though he had never gone over to the other mech’s habsuite, the saboteur knew the exact unit where his one time berthmate lived. There was so much he wanted to say, and so much he had wanted to ask. After the destruction of Praxus Jazz had hoped Prowl had made could of his goal to travel beyond Praxus, had hoped that by some quirk of fate that his friend had survived the slaughter. It had angered him to see how little the SIC had cared. Where other’s had murmured that it was shock, or even his glitch that had made him avoid the memorials, but Jazz had spent just enough time around Praxians to get a good read on their doorwings and Prowl had very much not cared about any of it. Whenever the saboteur had seen him walk passed the memorial on base, he had only seen anger in the mech’s wings. Though it had been tempting, the Polihexian had kept his thoughts to himself, and given Prowl an even wider professional berth than he had before… Prowl was Pantera… maybe if he had tried a little harder to understand him, tried a little harder at all, Jazz would have seen it sooner.

The hallway was clear, but the saboteur would need to work quickly. He had no way to know when one of the Praxian’s neighbours might turn up. It only took his kliks to break the encrypticon on Prowl’s door, something that stood our to Jazz. The encryption on the SIC’s office was several grades above this one, and it was deep in the Autobase. To be fair, it was a better lock than any of his neighbours were likely to have in this plain, working class apartment block. Jazz had been bemused at the thought that the commander would want to slum it, but no. Pantera had been thrifty too. Thanks to the joor, Jazz slipped into his old friend’s habsuite unseen.

Primus, it was the same. Pantera had not had anything in the way of these. Every single item in his habsuite had a purpose. The pole he had trained on, the shelves filled with datapads for his studies. There had been not a single knickknack, a single piece of forever glass, nothing personal. All his friend/roommate/berthmate had ever said in regards to that was that he had been a foundling, and so he had never had mementos to keep. What had they said about Prowl’s origings? The top of his class… served with distinction in the Enforcers… nothing actually about the mech. No one had probably ever noticed. He had always carried himself like a soldier, and he spoke with the perfect polished accent. Prowl was a very good actor.

Jazz searched the habsuite once and then twice. There was no sign of a struggle, nothing out of place. He scanned the datapads he found, but they were not blackmail, or work, just books. Of course a mech who spent his entire work-cycle reading or writing and WORKING would decompress reading the annals of ancient Tetrahex. Pantera had like reading too. When the Polihexian had been hoping for a little fun he had pulled Pantera onto his lap and asked him if it was work or play. If they answer had been play he would tease his plating and ask if there was something else he might have liked to do. Work, or rather studying, Jazz had never interrupted. And if his roommate had been enjoying his book, Jazz had left him alone. If either of them had planned to stay around they might have had a good thing, at least for a little while. Better than Prowl had had with Chromedome, that aft.

There was nothing out of place but when Jazz searched the Praxian’s washracks a second find he picked up the jar of grey paint and thought on it a little longer. Exotic as they had made him, those tattoos had not been a fashion statement or a trick to dupe the club’s clientele, they had been for his procreators. Prowl had not been willing to talk about the mechanisms that had given him life, but he had explained the meaning behind the symbols that were interwoven on his frame. Frowning, Jazz turned the datapad Sideswipe had given him back one, and he zoomed in on the mech’s bare mid drift. Remembering the dark-cycle he had lain with Prowl in the mech’s berth, tracing these very tattoos, talking about them and what they meant, Jazz knew they were frauds.

By the time the Polihexian had returned to the base, Optimus Prime had called an emergency meeting. Jazz slipped in as Blaster explained what his team was trying to do to purge the datanet of the ugly images. They went over the last sighting of Prowl, him having been seen running off the base, and the time did not fit. That image had not been posted for two joors after Prowl had last been seen. Jazz wondered if this fact supported or denied his theory that Prowl could have gone after his blackmailer alone. Why release the image after they had him? It just did not fit. It took the saboteur a long time to realize that Optimus had gone silent. Sick dread slipped into his spark.

“Boss Bot? What ya got?”

“I’ve received a resignation from Prowl,” the Prime replied.

“Lemme see that!” Jazz jumped to his peds and stole the datapad away, not waiting for so much as a by your leave. He sneered. “It’s obviously a fake. Prowl don’t talk like that… Too flowery.”

Ratchet took the datapad next and agreed with Jazz’s assessment. For what it was worth, Optimus agreed as well. Jazz took back the datapad and at the table with Blaster they went on a hunt. Perhaps the slagtard had not expected them to look, perhaps he did not care now that he had his prize. But there was no false trail or scapegoat this time. The trail led clear to Axiom Nexus, and Jazz knew exactly what that meant. He had chased Cryotek off a few times, though Prowl had always told him to leave it. Now the saboteur knew the mech was a crime lord but then and know he did not care. That mech had taken a look at Prowl and decided he would make pretty optic candy, and he had refused to take Prowl’s hard no for an answer. After so many vorns he had looked, watched, and somehow scene what no one else saw. Now he had Prowl, and Jazz knew he would not leave Prowl alone.

“He’s gotta be in Axiom Nexus. Place called the Blue Destroyer.

“How do you know?” Optimus asked.

“‘Cause the owner was obsessed wit ‘m.”

“Prowl break up his gang or something?” Sunstreaker asked. “Did he really thing someone would believe that slag.”

“The picture’s a fake but Prowl did dance,” the saboteur explained. “That’s how he put himself through school. But I know the picture’s fake cause the tat there is backwards.”

“And you know...?” The artist asked.

“I sang at the club,” Jazz explained. “Look I only just figured out we got any history. We both changed our looks. I know where he is so let’s just get’m back.”

Jazz called in a favour to get them into Axiom Nexus. Kickstart brought them in as staff. His former academy buddy had owed him since the Polihexian had allowed him to cheat on that exam, now the favour was repaid. Unfortunately thanks to some terrorist slag in the city, the space bridge and multi-dimensional hub had been taken offline. It took three mega-cycles before they could make their move. Though he had intended to go alone, Jazz found himself crowded together in a cafe across from the Blue Destroyer. Wheeljack and the Twins had insisted on coming along. The inventor because he had worked with the advanced technology of Axiom Nexus before, and the Twins because they insisted Jazz needed his own goons if he was going to face off with a mob boss. While Jazz remained in the Twins tromped in to the Blue Destroyer to play their part, each holding a dozen of Wheeljack’s latest development in the field of wanton destruction. Wheeljack followed after them. As Jazz watched, the Twins were thrown out, a half joor later Whelejack followed under his own steam.

  


“Did ya do good?”

“They did great!” Wheeljack replied. “They took out six bouncers, and left a lot of presents hidden for later.”

“My turn next,” Jazz replied.

Jazz waited until dark-cycle fell to slip into the club. He had watched the crowd pouring into the Blue Destroyer with increasingly insufferable nausea. It would do them no good if he blew everything now, but the saboteur would have loved to send them all into the Pit. He could not perform a rescue while Prowl was stuck on stage, so he slipped into a storage closet off the kitchen, listened and waited. It felt like an eternity, for longer than forever but he waited. Over the noise of kitchen and bar Jazz could not hear the crowds reaction to his friend, and he was spark sick. I am coming. Over time the whisper in his helm became a scream.

“What are you waiting for?” Someone beyond the storage room door hissed.

“For the boss to finish up with his knew buymech,” another replied. “I don’t think Cryotek would like me cleaning around him. He’d probably say I was spoiling the mood.”

“He fragging that Praxian on stage?”

“I guess he’s having a private demonstration. All I know is they carted the Praxian’s armour off stage so I don’t think he’s getting dressed again any time soon.”

As much as Jazz wanted to lunge from the closet, kill the gossipers and then go after the mobster, he waited until they had move on, and the made a break for it. To serve as a distraction, he rolled a smoke bomb into the kitchen and then slipped passed, beyond the bar. From the very back of the floor, the Polihexian watched as Prowl, or at least a Praxian, speak with Cryotek. It had to be Prowl, the way he held his doorwings was entirely his own. There was an untouched drink next to his servo, and it was clear by their frame language that Prowl wanted to get away. The mobster grabbed Prowl’s knees and pushed them apart. Prowl lashed out with servo and ped. Jazz heard the cracks as the tactician’s ped crushed the side of the slagtard’s helm. But the very next nanaoklik Prowl was falling on is back, convulsing.

“You uppity little whore,” Cryotek loomed over Prowl as the Praxian jerked on the floor. Jazz’s visor dropped to the tactician’s wrists, and understood what was happening. He moved quickly through the shadows. “You think you can dismiss me now? You turned away my gifts, my offers. You thought you were too good to spread your legs for me. You’ll spread them now.”

“No,” the rasp was almost inaudible. Weakened, wracked by shocks, Prowl still had the strength to raise his servos and to push the mobster back. Across the room, Jazz was too far away to intervene when the slagtard pulled his servo back and backhanded Prowl across the face. The Polihexian dropped his blades from their sheaths and crept as quickly as he dared across the empty floor.

“You are mine.” The madmech snarled, he crouched over Prowl, over his helm. Fuel rose in Jazz’s throat.

“Stop. Please.” Under the other’s mech’s shadows, the tactician was barely visible, his arm was raised, shielding his face. Cryotek grabbed his wrist and wrenched him up.

“Suck.”

He did not say another glyph. Jazz found the narrow gap between the cogsucker’s backplates and rammed the narrow plate through the back of his spark chamber. With a flick of his wrist, the saboteur twisted the plate, guttering the infamous mobster. As the mech grey, Jazz shoved him aside, he fell face first on the stage and did not move again. At his peds, Prowl lay terrifyingly limp. With his spark in his throat, Jazz dropped to his knees. Gently, he touched his comrade’s face, and with a prayer on his glossa, the Polihexian watched Prowl’s dimmed optics brightened. It was enough to make Jazz’s giddy. Working quickly he pulled cutter from a compartment in his arm, and cut those evil bands of the other’s wrists. Prowl sighed.

“I gotcha,” Jazz said, and helped the SIC sit upright before pulling a blanket from his subspace and wrapping it around the nude mech. With trembling servos, Prowl held the corners crossed over his chassis. “I gotcha. Can ya walk?”

“I...” Prowl sounded like he want not all there. When Jazz helped him to his peds, the Praxian wobbled like a cold construct just off the assembly line.

“It’s okay, I gotcha.” The Polihexian scooped Prowl up. Even without his armour, the mech was a solid weight, but Jazz did not grumble. “Y’re gonna be just fine. I gotcha.”

Prowl’s helm sagged against his shoulder. His ventilations were ragged but even. Shock, Jazz told himself, or the shocks. Some time, and a little care from Ratchet and the tactician would be okay. He hoped, hoped and prayed. There was no relief getting to Prowl in the nick of time, he might not have been, not really. Maybe he had stopped one rape, but maybe Cryotek had assaulted him already, or let other’s. Before he had even made it to the Blue Destroyer, Jazz may have already failed to save his old friend. The thought sickened and enraged him, but there was nothing the saboteur could do but get Prowl home. They would help him, however he needed. Jazz would help him.

“You have him?” Sunstreaker asked as Jazz slipped through the stage door.

“I got ‘m. No surprises?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” The frame of the mobster’s favourite Enforcer was greying behind some chests, Jazz was not the least bit concerned.

The four slipped out of the alley. As promised, Kickstart’s tour transport was waiting for them. Wheeljack swung open the doors, the Autobots wasted no time getting inside. Jazz sat in the corner, holding Prowl against his chassis as the transport sped away from the club. No one spoke, not immediately. They could all see that the Praxian was naked, and their processors were no doubt spinning the same worst case scenarios as Jazz’s own. As the drove in silence, Prowl started to shiver, he pulled his legs up to his chassis. Shock? Pain? Fear? Shame? Unsure what he could do, the saboteur gentle rubbed his friend’s bare shoulders, and crooned softly. He was surprised when Prowl turned his helm and buried it in his neck. Prowl trembled as Sunstreaker approached, he pulled a large warming blanket from his subspace, and held it out to Jazz.

“What do ya say, Prowl. Want me to drape this over your doors?” Against his neck, the SIC nodded. The brooding twin helped Jazz pull the blanket over Prowl, and tuck it in around them. “Thanks Sunny.”

“I guess we didn’t need those traps we planted,” Sideswipe said as his twin returned to their corner. They were all keeping their distance, out of respect for their SIC.

“I dunno,” Jazz lifted his helm and looked over to Wheeljack. “Those things remote operated?”

“Can be,” the inventor replied, and his helm fins flashing he asked: “Should I flick the switch?”

“Send it to the Pit.”

  


  


  


  


  



	16. Surprise! Aka Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As birthday requested for a Tumblr follower, here we have Punishment. It continues the Doradus AU. No new warnings apply.

The very nanoklik Prowl was alone, he fled. No one stopped him, perhaps because no one had ever paid him any attention. Operating on autopilot, the Praxian drove away from the Citadel, and beyond the borders of Iacon before his processor caught up with him. He might have stopped at a Hub and purchased a ticket on a transport or one of those rare few for a groundbridge but Prowl was keenly afraid of being followed, of being reprieved by that monster, he drove on and on. Prowl pushed his frame, stopping for only a joor at a time once or twice a mega-cycle to fuel when his engine threatened to quit. There was only one place he could go, only one mechanism he could go to and the tactician did not have the slightest idea how to find him. Even if Prowl had the credits to hire a submersible, he did not, Doradus had moved on from where the Praxian had encountered him. 

He reached the border of the Rust Sea and fell to his knees at the beach along a barren strip of shoreline. His fuel stores were running low and he was afraid, so terribly afraid of using his credit slug to purchase more. Prowl was certain Zeta Prime had his accounts monitored, and he never wanted to fall into that mech’s servos again. The sparkbroken mech did not know how long he sat in the sand, helm buried in his knees. It grew cold, as it often did in the dark-cycle, Prowl did not feel it, he was already frozen. Only when he heard a splash did the Praxian lift his helm, expecting an attack, almost wishing for it. When they came for him, the tactician told himself, he would fight. They would not take him back to Iacon alive. But it was not an Omega Destructor, or any of Zeta Prime’s goons, it was Jazz.

“Prowl.”

An agonizing keen broken from Prowl’s vocalizer, and stumbled, or tried to stumble to his peds. Jazz was with him in a nanoklik, and they sank into the sand together. The Praxian clung to his lover and wailed, giving voice to his grief. He did not know how the other could have known to find him here, and did not care. As he held tight to Jazz, Prowl let the grief consume him. It was dawn when the storm at edged off, leaving him exhausted and numb. Still Jazz cradled him, tears staining his beautiful faceplates, he grieved too. Neither thought to move, the mermech never let go of his spark broken lover. Together they sat entangled. Jazz apologized, over and over, blaming himself. Prowl shook his helm as he held his lover’s face in his servos, there was only one mech to blame for what had been done.

Though neither thought to move, someone else thought it was time to go. Long tendrils stretched from the energon sea, and cradled them like a sparkling. Prowl felt the cityformer’s love projected through his plating, into the tactician’s consciousness. He sobbed again. A stranger loved him where his own grand-progenitor did not, a stranger grieved for him where his grand-progenitor had struck the blow. Prowl sobbed, and sobbed, his plating clattered with the force of his despair. Healing from this seemed impossible, surviving it seemed insurmountable. Doradus nudged them to their peds, and gathered them in many tendrils and drew them into the sea. The city former brought them into his core. In the room that served as a temple, and gave the devastated lovers a safe place to grieve.

“I’ll kill'm,” Jazz promised as they lay curled up together under the glow of Doradus' spark. “‘N the medic that did it.

“Jhiaxus.” Prowl had served as an Enforcer for vorns, his processor and spark both should have recoiled at the thought of revenge killing, and of naming a particular mechanism for the slaughter. However both his spark and his processor were in agreement. There would be no justice for his murdered newspark, the Prime and his inner circle were untouchable, so Prowl would have revenge.

As Prowl’s processor cleared, though his spark ached and his empty forge haunted him, they planned. Though the Prime’s Citadel was well guarded, the gates flanked by Omega Destructors, it was no impenetrable. One mech knew every fault and weakness in its defenses, that mech was Prowl. Together he and Jazz planned the infiltration,  and the assassination. If Doradus took issue with their plans, he said nothing. He was an ever present hum, a warmth in the bleak, cold mega-cycles that followed one after the next. Prowl could not return to the Citadel, his unexcused flight would likely lead to his immediate summons by Zeta Prime. A face to face confrontation was not the way they could hope to avenge their creation, they would have to catch the slagtard by surprise. Jazz had the means, magnets in his servos that would allow him to scale the Citadel, and skills honed over the vorns of protecting his community from those that would exploited or abused. The Praxian had almost regained his equilibrium when his spark was struck with another blow, though the connection had been so faint that it hardly heard. Still, the broken bond was devastating. He did not need the Speaker to come to tell him of his grand-progenitor’s fate, but the mech came down to Doradus’ spark chamber all the same.

“Zeta Prime is dead,” the mech designated Jackpot said. “Rebels from his own faction teamed up with the Decepticons ‘n he fell at the Kaonite’s servo.”

Knowing the Prime was dead should have brought Prowl some relief but he only felt pain. They had been robbed of the vengeance/justice they could only meet themselves. Jazz held him, and consoled him. The Speaker left them to their grief. As he absorbed the knews, the tactician did take a single small comfort. That mech was no longer linked to him by spark, his stain no longer touched Prowl. In the coming mega-cycles, before the spark of the cityformer, Prowl and Jazz bonded their sparks.  Feeling his mermech lover in the very core of his being was an indescribable comfort, and the newly bonded spent joors, and mega-cycles with their sparks and frames embracing. Eventually they were strong enough to leave the inner sanctum and take shelter in Jazz’s habsuite, still waiting for them, despite all the time Jazz had spent away. Prowl no longer worried what he would do with himself if he stayed. Leaving his lover, his sparkmate, was an intolerable idea. Doradus was home. 

Mere quartexes after the death of Zeta Prime. The Speaker came to them again. This time the news was bleaker, and it left Prowl in a quandary. Orion Prax had been elevated to Optimus Prime. Despite their long and intimate alliance, Megatron had reacted with fury. Perhaps he had expected to be designated Prime himself, whether it was his treatment in the mines or in the arenas, the Kaonite had absorbed the same madness of Zeta and Sentinel and he had slaughtered the Senate the very first time it was called under the reign of Optimus Prime. A mega-cycle later, with the planet still really, he had wiped Praxus off the surface of Cybertron. Though it had not been home for vorns, Prowl grieved the place of his emergence. Though Praxus had emerged Zeta Prime, it had emerged millions more innocent sparks, and they had been wiped out in an instant. The planet had descended fully into carnage and and chaos.

“I need to go back,” Prowl said as he and Jazz sat together.

“ What? Why?” His mate choked on his energon. “Ya safe here.”

“No one is safe,” the tactician replied. “Optimus Prime was is not prepared for what this world is becoming. He thinks he can bring Megatron back from madness. He cannot. He needs to learn to lead an army and fight this war.”

“Ya think he’ll listen to ya?”

“Likely not, but if I can steer the battles on the right course, maybe. There are so many lives at stake.”

Prowl was almost surprised he was not immediately jailed upon his return  to Iacon. He did not need to ask for an audience with the new Prime, as soon as glyph got to the Iaconian Prime that his predecessor’s Second had returned, the Praxian was summoned to the new seat of power. Iacon had been levelled in the fighting with first Zeta and then Optimus Prime and Megatron. As Prowl walked onto the new Autobase, built over the ruins of the Citadel. It struck the tactician how quickly it had sprung up. The outer reaches of the city-state were visibly battle scarred but the capital looked pristine. There were an energy, a sensation beneath his peds that was both off putting and familiar. It made him think of Doradus, but Iacon was too far inland for the cityformer to reach.

The Terror Twins escorted Prowl to the new Prime’s office. It was quite the change of duties for the troubled young mechs. They said nothing to him, or each other. These Polihexians were split sparks, for all he knew they were having a lively conversation, he had no way to know. When they left him to wait for Optimus Prime’s arrival, the glanced backwards at him many times, perhaps forgetting he could see them with his doorwings. Orion Pax had been a punctual mech, Optimus Prime kept Prowl waiting for a joor. Either the demands of leadership were stretching him farther than he had ever experienced before, or he was an aft. More likely that not, it was a combination of both. As he waited, the tactician cursed himself for not trying to ingratiate himself on Zeta Prime’s favourite. He was paying for his caution now.

“Prowl,” the mech’s voice had gotten deeper, and there was a power behind it Prowl had never heard or felt. It reminded him of his grand-progenitor, though their voices were like light and dark. His spark raced with fear. “You’ve been AWOL for some time.”

“I was on medical leave,” Prowl replied. It was the truth, Jazz had hacked the Autobot records before he had been willing to agree to this plan. Zeta Prime had elected not to explain his absence. No doubt that meant his goons had been quietly hunting them. They could not have hoped to find him.

“And you left Iacon for treatment?” The Prime sounded skeptical. It came as no surprise. “And not to Praxus.”

“I went to Altihex.” It was again not a lie, not entirely. The closest city-state to the seabed where Doradus had rooted was Altihex.

“I don’t know why you returned. Or what scheme you have in processor. You are barred from leaving Iacon. You are under arrest for war crimes, and treason. If evidence is found you were complicit in Zeta Prime’s crimes, you will be tried.”

“I am a tactician and an administrator,” Prowl replied coolly, enraged by the threat though it should not have surprised him so. If this mech intended to punish him for the sins of his grand-progenitor, Jazz would get him safely away. “Zeta Prime’s crimes are his own.”

“You are his grand-creation,” Optimus Prime said.

“And you were his favourite and his enforcer. You will find you were far more complicit to his regime that I, Orion Pax.”


	17. Surprise! Aka Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another special request from Tumblr. A follow up to last years Circus AU.

The ringmasters and Punch were serious in their decree that Prowl would have a whole orn off. He felt guilty for taking so much, the tent and the fuel, and their attention, but Rumbler had declare they needed time to construct his new booth. No one would tell the Praxian where they intended to put it. Somehow he thought it was not in the same spot. A part of him was exacerbated, a part was honoured, and another still was guilty. There was no way he could be making them enough credits to warrant so much special treatment but no one would listen to reason, and Prowl had given up trying. Apart from interviews with Enforcers, the fortune teller’s time was very much his own to make with it what he wanted, but he felt too guilty to walk about the circus, and instead he remained hauled up in his new tent, right next to Jazz’s. His self-imposed confinement had not gone unnoticed, and Jazz, his saviour, took it upon himself to try and get Prowl to explore. Only part of the originator’s isolation came from guilt, he did not want to admit how much of it was motivated by fear. Jazz did not appear to need to be told, he just knew.

“Why don’t we all go out?” He suggested on the third mega-cycle. “Ya, me, ‘n the mechlings. We can go to the Refractin’ Gardens.”

“Oh...” Prowl glanced down at Smokescreen who looked up at him with hope. “Will you not miss a show?”

“I don’t perform every mega-cycle,” the Polihexian replied.

“Origin did,” Smokescreen piped up. “...Punch tried to shut him down. But that was our tent... so.”

“I get the feelin’, Ori’s gonna make sure your origin takes more breaks,” Jazz declared. “Come on, Prowler, don’t ya wanna stretch ya legs a lil? Ventilate a lil?”

He did, though he was scared. Punch was going to limit his joors, Prowl knew he would. It may not have been logical, in fact it might even have been ridiculously illogical, but the Praxian felt he owed the circus such a debt, he was afraid of not giving them his all, at all times. Prowl realized it was not fair to Smokescreen who remembered very little of Praxus, and too much of the camps, to be absence so often. There were no teachers amongst the circus mechanisms, largely each set or single procreator taught their own. Smokescreen needed to learn more than tricks and scams, he needed to learn maths, sciences, languages. They had made the circus their home, but that did not mean Smokescreen might want to do more, or be more. Prowl felt guilty for thinking of these mechanisms as lesser, they were the best mechanisms he had ever known.

The gardens were within walking distance of circus. No doubt this was one part of why Jazz had suggested this place for their outing. While the Crystal City was a glittering jewel that held in it the wealthiest and most powerful mechanisms on the planet. These mechanisms had used Praxus as a living shield against Kaon, although they could not have known what Crosscut had planned. Prowl found himself relaxing as they explore the garden of mirrors. The circus had reproduce this affect on a smaller scale. Were the Towers mech’s bemused, or insulted? Or course, the bulk of the Crystal City’s resistance were not Towers mechs. Most were labourers, builders and servants. It was these mechanisms rather than the noblemechs that filled the circus’ tents.

In the centre garden there was a little cafe. Jazz guided the Praxians there just as Bluestreak was starting to get fussy. He ordered them fuel, insisted on treating them. This mech was far too kind. Though he mentioned no strings, held nothing over Prowl’s helm, the originator knew that the kindness did have an ulterior motive. Was Jazz courting him as Punch’s urging, or did he do so for his own reasons? Prowl tried to open himself up to it, to enjoy the mech’s attention, especially here where Smokescreen benefited. But it was hard. Never had he ever thought he might have a choice. His bonding to Polaris had been arranged when Prowl had still been a newspark on his originator’s spark. Before he had ever understood what it meant, he had been promised to the heir to Praxus’ throne. Polaris was gone, Praxus was gone, Prowl was alone with his creations. It did not offend him to have a mech from such a low status paying him court, the Praxian’s lofty status was long lost, and he was determined to keep Smokescreen from those who would make him a puppet in a foreign court. No one would look for them in a circus, no one would look for him in the tend of a trapeze artist. When Jazz smiled as Smokescreen Prowl’s spark was in his throat. This mech looked at his creation like he was the greatest treasure in the world.

After they fuelled and rested, they returned to the circus, and Prowl was sorry their outing was over. Jazz did not leave them when they arrived back at the tents. He stayed in the Praxians’ tent, laid on his chassis and played with Bluestreak. Sang to him when he refused to nap Was this really so hard a decision? Prowl watched the Polihexian teach Smokescreen another trick of slight of servo, and fell a little bit in love. This mech was more of a progenitor to his mechlings than their progenitor had ever wanted to be. It did not make the originator’s spark hurt. They were worthy of love. As wary as he might have been for himself, and as confused as he was at how completely this love was given. Punch loves Smokescreen and Bluestreak, as his own, and had from early on. His mates had proven to as well, along with Ricochet and Artfire... and Jazz. There were worse reasons to bond. If this mech loved his creations, that seemed like enough.

They joined Punch, and kin for dinner. Everyone sat around a fire, and they told stories, they laughed. Jazz sat on the same bench as Prowl and his creations. Ricochet sat with Artfire, and Punch and the ringmasters sat together. There might have been significance to this, but the Praxian told himself to let go of his anxieties. He was not an outsider at the fire. Smokescreen regaled those gathered with a story of the garden. No one silenced him, they all listened with warmth and pleasure. As he stopped resisting, Prowl felt more and more at home. As dinner wound down, Jazz sang and his progenitors played along. It was no grand opera, it was far better. The joor grew late and Prowl gathered up his creation, both about ready to drop. Smokescreen circled the fire and hugged Punch, Rumbler and Sprocket. He whispered:

“Good dark-cycle, Grand’ori, Grand’geni, Grand’tor.”

“Good dark-cycle sweetest spark,” Rumbler crooned. Prowl did not hear what the others said, but he saw the joy in their optics, he glanced to Jazz, who looked at him, visor bright, quirked in a question.

Prowl said his own goodbyes and tucked his creations into their berths. Jazz lingered. What more did he need from this mech? The fortune teller asked himself. He was good to Smokescreen and Bluestreak, and he was good to Prowl himself. His kin all adore the mechlings, they treated Prowl as though he was a dear loved one. Smokescreen loved them dearly. For him these were his grand-procreators, they were already kin. Had he resisted calling them that for his originator’s sake? Prowl would ask him in the light-cycle, but for the moment, his creations were in recharge, and the Praxian was alone with the mech who had been on his processor all mega-cycle.

“Prowl?” Jazz asked. Prowl dimmed his optics, realizing he had been staring at the trapeze artist. There were worse reasons to bond. This was already so much more than convenience. He looked into his spark and knew he wanted this mech, and he knew the mech wanted him.

“Stay?” Prowl asked, and he brushed his mouth over the other’s. Jazz wrapped his arms around Prowl’s waist and kissed him deeply, an unmistakable yes. They did not fall into berth together, but quietly slipped under the blankets and Prowl would never recharge alone again.


	18. Culture Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is less a culture shock and more a shitty situation. But I do what I want.
> 
> This is linked to NOTHING. Yet.

They were all lined up in their finest armour under the scorching sun. The aisle was dusted with crushed crystals that sparkled, leading up to the platform set into the softly rolling waves. One by one a Praxian’s designation was called, and one by one the mechs and mechlings were presented with their match, and before priest of Praxus and Polihex bonded. From their, they were led into the sea. It sickened Prowl to see so many youths mixed in amongst the adults. He wanted to rage at the officials who had drawn their designations, or had put them in the lottery in the first place. He raged at their procreators and kin for not finding someone to take their place. One hundred Praxians had been presented to be bonded, and one hundred more Polihexians were facing the same exchange in the capital of Praxus, representing the two hundred vorns war that had dragged out between their communities.

Prowl did not know who had suggested this exchange, what fool had thought it could bring a lasting peace. He feared it would be the exact opposite. As soon as one of the Praxian or Polihexian bondeds died within the borders of unfamiliar lands and waters, retaliatory killings would begin, and they would descend into yet another war, with hundred each of their young and innocent first to pay the price. The former Praefectus Vigilum had voiced this concern but the chief Enforcer had been summarily ignored. After all, he was only an Enforcer, not a soldier. But then, the core of his duties had been to preserve life, not to formulate plans for how to end as many as possible, though only on the other side. At twelve thousand vorns, Prowl was more than twice the age of the next oldest mechanism here. If all had gone as originally intended it would have been Smokescreen. The foundling was only twenty vorns old, close to adulthood but still so young, his brother was only eight vorns old, and Smokescreen had largely raised Bluestreak, at first due to dysfunctional procreators, and finally with inattentive caretakers at the centre. Prowl had been in the works of seeking custody of the mechlings when Smokescreen’s designation had been drawn from the lottery. Though it broke his spark to leave them, taking the youngling’s place had been the best he could hope to do.

Did these mechanisms bond young? Prowl did not thing the decision to bond off their younglings had been the idea of his framekin. Praxians very rarely bonded before completing whatever education or job training they had chosen, though they did not tend to wait too long after that. The fact that Prowl was unbonded at his age was an anomaly. Then, his brother had only recently bonded, and Barricade was older than he. Though the former Praefectus thought this had less to do with finding his match and more to do with discovering he was with spark. They would make it work, Prowl hoped they would. If not he thought his brother was brazen enough to leave the mech, and to raise his creation alone. Barricade had promised he would check in on the foundlings. It would not be the same.

As he stared ahead at nothing, lost in his processor as he was wont to do, ninety designations were called. He did not immediately notice when no designations were called. When he did return his attention to the procession, Prowl discovered he was the last Praxian intended remaining. The officials that had come to represent Praxus were clustered together. On the platform the Polihexians were similar deep in conversation. His intended had not appeared. Prowl almost laughed, almost but he did not. No Praxian had wanted to bond with him, was it shocking a Polihexian did not either. Barricade would have laughed, would have commiserated. He did not need any sympathy, since the former Enforcer did not actually want with this absent Polihexian, he could not resent the mech, in fact Prowl admired his defiance, wherever he was.

After a few joors Prowl was feeling less admiring of the missing Polihexian and considerably more annoyed, though his grievance was more against the officials overseeing this farce. With his processor glitch, the Praxian was sensitive to overheating, and his frame was not used to the scorching heat of the tropical sun. Relief came when the sunset and the moons rose. The representatives of both kingdoms gathered together, and spoke in hushed voices. Prowl remained where he had come to stand in the light-cycle. His helm ached, wherever that mech was, the former Enforcer truly loathed him. Would they let him go home? Would they draw another designation, would they demand Smokescreen? If they tried, Prowl would refuse. He would protest, in the press if he had to. One thing the Praxian government knew, on each level, when Prowl had set his processor on something he was very rarely dissuaded, he was usually right after all.

When the lead emissary, Crosscut, joined Prowl, and he explained they would gather again in the light-cycle. For now, they would take shelter in their alt-modes, and recharge. For a bream or two, as he fuelled, the Praxian considered fleeing, they probably would not even stop him. But he had volunteered to spare Smokescreen and Bluestreak, and he dared not go back on his glyph. No one had planned for this delay, and Prowl had been commanded to comm with his subspace empty, and so he had no coolant to drink, to shore up his reserves. His levels were not crucially low, but he loathed to have them even at half strength. He may have a habit of forgetting fuel when he worked, he never forgot his ornly ration of coolant. Nothing much had helped his glitch but keeping his coolant levels high seemed to reduce his crashes.

The ritual was repeated the next mega-cycle and then the next. No one would explain to him what had become of his intended, or if they were searching for someone to replace the mech. Perhaps he had died, perhaps he had been arrested. Would it be so terribly to make only one hundred and ninety-nine unions, Prowl did not think so. On the fourth mega-cycle, standing under the sun yet again, the Praxian was losing his patience. He was tired, he felt ill. Why did he have to stand there in the empty aisle when the mech was nowhere around. In defiance, and self preservation, Prowl sat in the sand and crossed his legs. Dropping his optics offline, he schooled his ventilations and began to meditate. A ped knocked against his hip, and out of instinct, Prowl caught his attacker’s ped and yanked it out from under the mech. He looked down to see it was the emissary. Then he looked to the platform. The Polihexians were gathered in a circle again, but the seemed to be arguing with a newcomer. His intended?

“Get up!” Crosscut hissed as he crawled to his peds, and dusted himself up. By the angle of his doorwings Prowl knew he was embarrassed to have been lain out in front of these esteemed Praxians and Polihexians. It was almost enough to make Prowl smile.

He climbed to his peds with ease, but as soon as he was upright, his helm spun, and Prowl wobbled, and fell. Steps away he heard someone mutter. “Typical.” But the former Praefectus did not respond. Prowl tried to make order of his processor but he felt like he was treading in tar. If this had been a crash, he would have known better what to do, but he had overheated he said, his frame was sluggish. It took some effort to even push him up onto his elbows. A cool, wet servo slid behind his shoulders and helped him sit upright. As soon as he was upright, Prowl wanted to lay down, just sitting up had his helm spinning. He thought he might drop offline, or purge, or both. Someone pressed a flask against his lips and the Praxian turned his helm. The last thing he wanted was energon.

“It’s coolant,” the foreign voice said. Prowl parted his lips and drank. As he did, this stranger snarled. “Ya have’m standin’ in the sun, in calor without coolant? Stupid afts.”

“If ya’d come when ya were called, he wouldn’t’ve been standin’ waitin’, Jazz,” Crosscut’s counterpart in the Polihexians replied. He sounded like a sanctimonious aft.

“I said I wasn’t interested.” The mech supporting him would have to be Jazz. This was his intended. “I went what I said. Fact that ‘m here don’t mean slag. I ain’t bondin’ to anyone.”

Where did that leave Prowl? Was he expected to wait until they found another? Would the exert force on the mech to make him comply. If they tried, the former Enforcer would put a stop to it. There was no way he could be made to bond his spark to one held there, against his will. It had been stupid of him to think the Polihexian intendeds would be have fewer reservations than himself and the youths already bonded off. Prowl felt his helm slowly clear as the coolant brought his core temperature down to more tolerable levels. The mech did not want him, fine, the Praxian really was tempted to cackle. Really, it was so typical. Well, Prowl did not want him either. He leaned forward, away from the mech’s servos. Enough, he had had quite enough of this farce.

“Return to Praxus,” Prowl ordered, looking up at Crosscut, several steps ahead, with the same as he would an obstinate subordinate. “Tell them you were successful.”

“Absolutely not!” Crosscut replied, audibly aghast. “The treaty would not be valid.”

“A treaty is meaningless,” the former Praefectus said. “It is the actions of mechanisms that decide if the peace is brief or long.”

“Ya feelin’ aight?” Jazz asked, not quite drawing his servos away.

“Fine.” Prowl inched further back. “Go. Allow of you can just go. Say it is done. Who would know different?”

“Don’t think they’re gonna go for that,” the Polihexian as his side murmured.

Unfortunately, he was right.


	19. Lovechild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I realize this prompt is for lovechild, but this is where the plot is going. Bluestreak is mentioned so, the lovechild is here in spirit. Sort of.
> 
> Continues Doradus.

They had not intended for it to happen, any more than they had the first time. But in the third vorn of Optimus Prime’s reign as Prime, Prowl again found himself to be carrying. The timing was no less terrible than it had been the first time. Though they had not been trying, they had not done much of anything to prevent kindling. Everything the Praxian had learned about conception had been turned on its helm, interfacing with this mech. It seemed to not matter whether or not he was in a procreo-cycle, perhaps the problem lay in his spark, but Prowl did not dare see a medic to ask. He was more wary, a thousand times more than he had been that first time. There was no question he could not terminate, the time may have been terrible, but he could not bear, could not even consider ending this newspark. For his part, Jazz never suggested it, and he stuck to Prowl’s side as much as either dared.

As the stellar-cycles passed, and the newspark within him grew, they planned their leave from Iacon. Jazz had, to the surprise of both of them, become first the nominal, and then the official Commander of Special Operations, much of their planning had to do with preparing the newly reformed unit to be leaderless again. Of course the Polihexian could not tell them this was what they were doing, he could only train them. In the earliest stellar-cycles of his mega-cycles as Commander, Jazz had gone out in the field, on the face of it serving Autobot interests. In truth, he had been searching out those who had taken part in the murder of their creation, and one by one ending their lives.

Since they had learned he was carrying, neither Jazz nor Prowl could face a separation. The Praxian was terrified it would happen again, before they had done all that they needed to feel safe to move on. Jazz was equally terrified, he lived in guilt over the fact he had not been there to protect Prowl and the newspark they had designated Bluestreak. They had not designated this one. Both were afraid. Oh they had bonded to the newspark, loved it to the point of madness, but they were terrified of what would happen if they lost this one. Prowl did not believe he could survive it. Logically they should already have made the move to Doradus. But there was still one mech they were hunting, and alone they did no have the resources to hunt the madmech. So they stayed, and with every stellar-cycle that passed, the gravid mech became increasingly paranoid.

“They think they got a lock on’em,” Jazz said. They sat together on Prowl’s berth, servos intertwined. Officially they lived separately, as they had before. But now they lived in the same building, and it was easy for the mermech to slip down to his sparkmate’s habsuite, and they spent more time together than apart. “On Arduria.”

“You’ll go,” Prowl replied.

“Not if ya want me here.”

“I do. But I want him dead.”

“Then I’ll go.”

When the time came for Jazz to catch his shuttle, they stood together, tucked away in Prowl’s office. For the first vorn, they had been forced to use discretion, knowing how closely the Praxian was being followed. Optimus had called off his hellhounds, they had never found any evidence that could be used to take the tactician to trial. He remained in limbo, not Second, not even a recognized officer, though he led the tactical division. Prime was freezing him out. Prowl was intensely frustrated but he kept his helm down and did his work. The slaughter of Praxus could not be repeated. Optimus Prime needed to do more to prevent it. These extended stalemates, and fruitless peace talks would not stop the inevitable. As with Senator Shockwave, Megatron had become black sparked and power mad. Did the Prime know that his former ally had been Shadowplayed? Could he understand there was no reasoning with the mech?

“Ya run for Doradus if ya get just an inklin’ o’ anythin’,” Jazz ordered as he hugged his mate. “Anythin’. Ya change ya mind, ‘n want me home. Comm me. Nothin’ is more important that ya.”

“Be safe,” Prowl replied. “I want him dead. But I will settle for you alive.”

He could not stand in the terminal, and watch the transport take off. Optimus Prime was not Zeta Prime, but neither Prowl nor Jazz trusted the mech, they could not afford to. He was not a terrible leader, the Autobots followed him, drawn to his idealism and his presence. They did not fear him, he did not encourage them to fear him, but Prowl feared him with every component in his frame. The more the masses fell in line and in awe of the young Matrix-Bearer, the more the Praxian feared. All the Prime needed to do was bring up the spectre of his predecessor, and tie it to his designation, it would be easy to banish him from Iacon, from Cybertron, from the colonies. No one would stand up for Prowl, no one but Jazz. No one would care if he disappeared, no one but Jazz. It was a lonely existence, less so with Jazz. He should have gotten used to it by now.

For a time, Prowl buried himself in his work. Though he had his own department, and he oversaw every tactic they produced, there was limited need for him to actually engage with them, and so it was easy to hide his burgeoning mound from them. When Prowl needed to question their thought processes, he called them into his office, where his forge was safely hidden, and protected. When he was called to task by a general, he held one of the oversized tablets in front of himself, and tore their arguments apart. He did not live in terror to have his plans shredded by gloryhounds and idealists. There were times they made good points, and he would have been happier to amend his strategy or strategies accordingly if they had not been so obnoxious. Oddly, the Prime never came to question him, their paths only crossed in the War Room, and even that was rare. When the officers met, his presence was not asked for.

Prowl’s term was now well farther than he had come with Bluestreak, and he was having a harder and harder time hiding his condition. He sat in his office, with his servos running over mound. It was so big, he was so big, and it was part a wonder, and part a terror. Whenever his processor wandered too far, his servos fell to his forge, his subconscious needed to be reminded his little one was still safely growing away. When he caught himself cupping his forge as he was discussing a strategy with Trailbreaker, he froze. Thankfully, the Tagonian had not noticed, but the slipped set panic alight deep in his spark, and he could not break free of it. It was agonizing to walk the halls, and the tactician came into the office earlier and earlier, and stayed later and later to avoid any roving optics catching something they should not. And he feared. Oh how he feared.

His office was no longer a sanctuary. No longer did he feel safe, sitting behind his desk, to call his subordinates to task. Instead he turned to the datanet, and carried on all conversation and planning session remotely. For their part, the tacticians under him seemed happy with the change. He could not say what had started it, but Prowl gathered fuel, blankets and supplies. First he stored it all in his office, and thought to himself he could just stay here until Jazz returned. But he could hear his subordinates. They could enter at anytime. True, they would knock, but how many times could he turn them away before questions would be raised? What would Prime say if he barged in and saw Prowl wrapped in blankets because he could not seem to keep warm with Jazz gone.

Late one dark-cycle, something called him downwards. He gathered his supplies and descended to the lowest reaches of the Autobase, to the place where his creation had been murdered. It made his spark sick to be down here, but it was the one place in all of Iacon where he knew no one would accidentally stumble upon him. Meticulously Prowl unpacked his energon stores and stacked them in a corner. With the empty crates, he made a wall that would hide him from view from the doorway. The tactician did not merely stack them though, he arranged them in a precise pattern. Prowl raised his acid pellet rifle and assured himself his line of sight within his nest was good. As he settled, wrapped in his blankets, he tested his comms, and confirmed he was in easy contact with his subordinates. Good. He could easily continue his duties from down here, nobody would be the wiser. His spark begged him to comm change, and to call him back, but it also called for revenge. It would not be much longer, he reasoned. Jazz would be home soon, with knew of Jhiaxus’ end. For now, Prowl would wait.

***

Something was wrong with Prowl. Though tactics received their assignments, critiques, etc, every ‘cycle without fail, they never saw the Tac Head. A vorn long investigation had cleared him of wrong doing in Zeta’s regime, but Optimus Prime remained suspicious of his long time mentor, and finally enemy’s grand-creation. Without evidence of guilt in any crime, the new Prime had not felt able to dismiss the Praxian, but he had reassigned him. It was, officially a lateral move. Prowl’s record going back to the Enforcers had suggested he was an exemplary tactician, and in the last three vorns, this had proven to be the truth. If only Optimus could trust his tactics. They locked horns, him and Prowl, over near every strategy the tactician wrote, and they locked horns every time a battle plan went wrong, and even when they went right. It was cowardly, but the Matrix-Bearer had come to avoid the Praxian whenever he did not have to face the other mech, and Prowl had generally done the same. This explained how Prowl had managed to go under the radar for so long.

At first no one had noticed anything amiss. It had been two vorns since Optimus had called off the surveillance on the mech. Since then, and even before, it had not been uncommon for Prowl to lock himself in his office, immersed in some strategy or analysis, and very little could draw him out. He never once game to officers’ meetings. Then, had he ever under Zeta? Without a direct invitation might he have assumed he was not welcome? The Prime would have tolerated his presence, but he had not complain about the mech’s absence. Optimus sighed. Tactics could be as insular as Special Operations. The Autobots most familiar with, and comfortable with the Tac Head were his own subordinates. It had been one of the, Trailbreaker, who had raised the alarm. After not receiving a response to a message he had sent over the datanet, he had entered Prowl’s office, to get an answer to his quandary, and the Tagonian had discovered his commander was absent, and based on the dust, had been for some time.

Optimus’ first thought had been the Praxian had betrayed them. But inexplicably reports, rosters and battle plans continued to be uploaded to the tactical hub via Prowl’s ID, even after Trailbreaker had dicovered he was AWOL. The tactician was somehow still fulfilling his duty shifts, somehow, somewhere, from a portable work terminal that even Red Alert could not seem to track. It might have been easier if Jazz were not deployed. In his past life, the Prime had not known the saboteur, he recalled seeing his face, but the reformatting had left him with gaps in his memories. As the members of Zeta’s inner circle had been tried, demoted, or dismissed, Special Operations had been drained of most of its talent, and all of its commanders. While other operatives had floundered, largely strangers to each others, Jazz had proved to be a leader. Giving him command of the unit had been a logical choice, one he had not sought Prowl’s opinion on.

It had been a test, sort of, for both the mechs. The Polihexian’s charisma seemed to have had an effect on the tactician, because he managed to go into cold Praxian’s office, and come out with a smile, where anyone else came out frustrated, shaken or cowed. He praised Prowl’s work. Optimus did not know quite what to think of it. Perhaps he was jaded but the Matrix-Bearer wondered if Prowl was not even more abrasive than before. Every memory he had of Prowl was superimposed on a memory of Zeta-Prime. In all fairness, he likely was jaded or biased, but Optimus thought the Praxian was a terrible leader, witch terrible interpersonal skills. He was being called to select a second, for reasons he could not understand, there was pressure to again make that mech Prowl, but he had come to question if Jazz would not have been a better choice.

Jazz would have refused, or tried to. The Polihexian continued to go out into the field even though he was Commander of Special Operations and had a whole department of operatives he could send in his stead. Though Optimus had tried to reign the mech in, he was a commander after all, the Polihexian found a way back into the field. Whenever pressed to explain why he needed to go, not one of his operatives, Jazz was always able to make a convincing case. Beyond that, he was Special Operations. There was no question that his mech would remain in Special Operations. In the rebuilding of the unit, these mechanisms had become Jazz’s, and they would never follow another commander. Despite how frequently the thought came to his processor, the Prime knew selecting Jazz to be his second would go well with no one.

Perhaps such a command would be a poor fit to Jazz. He was a friend to everyone, and he was especially close to his operatives, close enough that losing one knocked him back several steps, and inspire a thirst to avenge himself on his Decepticon targets. Optimus had learned quickly to leave the mech to his revenge, and so far Jazz had always ever unleashed himself on sanctioned targets, and the less the Prime knew of the nitty gritty world of Special Operations, the happier he was. Prowl knew considerably more of their workings than he did, and that might have been the single thing that kept Optimus from trying to replace him with Jazz, he did not know where the mechs loyalties truly lay.

Still, he was an excellent operative, there was no doubt in the Matrix-Bearer’s processor that Jazz would have found the Praxian by now. Optimus vented a long sigh as he stood in the empty hall several stories beneath the surface of Iacon. When Metroplex had transformed over the ruins of the Citadel, he had linked his systems to the remains of Zeta’s fortress. At one point this basement had served as a secret prison for the Prime’s enemies. This was where Shockwave was Shadowplayed. It would not happen again. The cells had been emptied, and the hideous laboratory that had served as both torture chamber and mnemosurgery room had been stripped off all traces of its dark use. Still, the Prime felt the shadows, and the tormented sparks called out to him through the Matrix, and he would have preferred to be just about anywhere else. But something kept leading him back here, either from his intuition or his spark, and so Optimus paced. It was cold, cold enough to make the Prime’s sensor feel the temperature, and for to necessitate running his engine hotter, else his coolant start to gel. Prowl had been absent for at least a quartex, likely longer, and this seemed like the last place he would have spent any extended time in. Zeta at least had always preferred warmer temperatures.

Red Alert was watching the cameras, hoping to catch side of Prowl, Ratchet and the Twins were searching the upper levels. It had not been particularly odd that Red Alert had informed the Twins of the situation. They were his younger brothers, and his saviours. That they had volunteered to help search for the Praxian had been more of a surprise. The search was taking place under the utmost secrecy, it would be a disaster if the Autobots as a whole, or the Decepticons caught wind of the Tac Head’s bizarre behaviour. Ratchet suggested it might have something to do with Prowl’s glitch, but Red Alert had suggested otherwise. There were different types of processor defects, and while the security director’s led to paranoia, the Praxian had no history of the same. When the tactician glitched, Optimus did not think he had every seen it, happen, though he remembered seeing the aftermath. When Prowl glitched, he crashed. The Prime wondered if the crashes might have been more frequent than Prowl or Zeta had ever let on. Jhiaxus was in the wind, Zeta’s personal medic had been heavily involved in the tortures inflicted in the basement. Records of his work were gone too, along with Prowl’s medical records. Somehow the tactician had managed to avoid submitting to Ratchet for a physical, and the state of his health, before and after the end of Zeta was an unknown.

Something made Optimus stop, just around the corner from the decommissioned lab’s main entrance. Internally, he recoiled from the haunted whispers of his predecessors’ victims, but he did not turn and retreat, something kept him in place. A small maintenance drone rolled by, and Optimus cocked his helm. This level was entirely out of use. No department could bring themselves to lay claim to it and so the upper levels were actually overcrowded. It took every maintenance drone available to keep everything running, and yet here was one, rolling through this dusty, empty hall. The Prime frowned as the drone continued passed him. Sensing that this drone mild hold his answer, Optimus lunged forward and picked the drone up. As soon as he had it in his servos, before he could open the maintenance hatch and access it’s logs there was a beep, and the drone’s plating became hot as sparks and smoke erupted from it’s on board computer. Though he knew Red Alert would find nothing on the drone, Optimus still tossed it into his subspace. Its memory would have been wiped as part of the self-destruction program, there was probably nothing to learn from it but it was the first real clue.

-“Prime to Red Alert,” he called.

-“Red Alert here, Sir,” the security director answered.

-“Can you tell me what you see in the old... lab,” Optimus asked.

-“Nothing,” Red Alert replied. “There aren’t any cameras on that floor... They didn’t want any witnesses.”

-“I’m sorry, Red Alert,” the Prime said, remembering his security expert had been one of the Senate’s victims. “I found a drone down here. When I picked it up, it self-destructed. Could it be a relic from my predecessor?”

-“Unlikely,” the security bot replied. “I over saw the decommissioning myself. We left nothing. Everything was dumped in the smelter.”

-“In which case, I believe I know where Prowl has holed himself up,” Optimus declared. “He must be in the lab.”

-“I’d advise not approaching from the main doors,” Red Alert warned. “If he’s in his right helm, he won’t shoot you, probably. But if he isn’t, that rifle of his is lethal.”

-“How should I enter then?” The Matrix-Bearer asked.

-“There’s a side door, near the elevator,” the small, twitchy mech replied. “Looks like a service hatch. That’s how they got in, and got me out.”

-“Thank you, Red Alert,” Optimus said. “Put Ratchet on standby.”

-“Understood,” Red Alert replied.

Optimus turned around, and walked for the elevator. If Red Alert did not have cameras, it was reasonable to believe that Prowl did not either. He would likely have received a warning from the drone when it destructed, but that was likely it. Still, he could not be certain. It was possible the Praxian would know the intruder was him, it was just as possible that Prowl would only be aware that somebot had entered the bottom level of the base. For a moment the Prime considered warning his quarry of his presence, but he thought better of it. Prowl was not functioning normally, or he would not be hiding down here, and it was an absolute certainty that the tactician would have an escape plan ready. The last thing Optimus wanted to do was set the mech to flight before he got some answers.

The maintenance hatch looked dubiously small, the Twins were a fraction of his size. Not relishing the idea of getting stuck halfway in and out of the stall, he considered comming the Twins. Something held him back, and he pulled open the hatch. Optimus jerked back with surprised as the whole segment of wall turned. It was something out of a sparkling tale, the secret door, a hidden lab. The Prime quietly slipped passed the turned wall, and closed it behind him. Before he could ask himself if there might be traps from his predecessor left behind he remembered what Red Alert had said. The mech had been a prisoner in this place, and he had been rescued through this hall, when Optimus had ascended to primacy, and Red Alert had taken charge of decommissioning the prison and lab, he would have stripped this hall too.

There were more cells, emptied, stripped of their furnishings, and even their doors. Through the Matrix, Optimus heard more anguished cries, and when he listened, he thought one of them might even have been in Red Alert’s voice. It was chilling. More needed to be done to strip the basement, to gut it completely and rebuild it in some way. That was a task for later. Big as he was, Optimus struggled to walk softly, but as he followed the twist and turns of the hall towards the lab, he thought he was doing fairly well. When he took another turn, he found the lab’s side door. With a deep intake, the Prime palmed the door, and it slid open, almost without a sound. Supposedly, it was impossible to sneak up on a Praxian, but Optimus knew this was not the case for his Second. If Prowl was running his tactical systems especially hard, a bomb could go off a step in front of him, or behind him and the mech would be oblivious to it.

Prowl was not immediately visible. Crates, empty if Optimus was guessing right, walled off one section. How he did he approach? The Prime wondered. Did he walk to the crates, and call to Prowl? Did he call to Prowl now? Optimus looked around the lab, looking for evidence of traps, but finding nothing, he stepped further inside. He listened for any sign or sound from the Praxian, but the lab was silent. As Optimus got closer to the crates he got a better idea as to what might have been going on in Prowl’s processor. The crates were not simply stacked, but carefully arranged. For a klik the Matrix-Bearer considered his options. When he had opened Prowl’s record after his reformatting Optimus had been startled to discover that the tactician had won awards for marksmanship while serving in the Enforcers. Seeing the sniper’s nest made him wary. Would Prowl shoot him? He did not have an answer.

“Prowl?” Optimus called, thinking better of stepping any closer without making verbal contact first. As Prime he had a duty to take care of the mechanisms under his command. That included Prowl.

He received no answer. Trusting Zeta’s grand-creation more than he ever had, Optimus moved forward. One foot, and then another. With each step the Prime became more and more confident that Prowl would not shoot him. But every step without a response from the tactician only increased his alarm. Finally, Optimus was close enough to see the gap between the crates and the walls, and he went for it. It was too tight a fit for the large mech to step through but it gave him his first look at Prowl in three quartexes, and what he saw concerned him. Prowl’s helm was down, resting on his knees. There was a rifle on the ground, easily within reach. Warming blankets were draped over his doorwings, but without access to a charging device, they had likely long run dry. Afraid for his SIC’s health, Optimus immediately forced the crates closest to him aside.

Prowl raised his helm at the sharp screech of metal on metal, and a relief flooded the Prime’s circuits, at least he was conscious. The Matrix-Bearer could not say what he had expected to see on the Praxian’s faceplates, but stark terror was not it. Concern heightening, Optimus stepped into Prowl’s hiding space and knelt next to the smaller mech. To the side he saw a neat stack of energon in airtight cubes, which explained how Prowl had managed to avoid coming out for fuel. These were not ration cubes but good mid grade, a hoard the tactician must have purchased with his own credits. This close to Prowl, the Prime felt the heat of the Prxian’s systems. The warming blankets were serving more to keep the heat in than to give any off themselves. It would have been a difficult decision run his systems hotter, and burn more fuel, or charge the blankets and give Red Alert something to track.

-“Ratchet, I have Prowl,” Optimus commed the medic. “In the old lab... I don’t know what’s wrong yet, but I imagine he will need some medical attention.”

-“On my way,” Ratchet replied. “He’s conscious?”

\- “And alert,” the Prime said.

-“Comm me if that changes,” the medic ordered.

Turning his attention to the resigned mech next to him, Optimus asked: “Ratchet’s on his way, what...”

“No!” Prowl cried, recoiling quickly, tumbling back as he was tangled in the warming blankets. “No!”

“Easy, Prowl, easy,” the Matrix-Bearer soothed. He reached out to the other mech, blocked the sudden lash of the martial art’s trained Praxian’s arm. Prowl kicked his legs freefrom the blankets, and lashed out again. Each time Optimus reached or him, he clambered backwards, dodging the Prime until he was wedged into the corner. His vents were heaving violently, and his optics glowed with terror. Hunched over as he had been, Optimus had missed it, but as Prowl flattened himself against the wall, the Matrix-Bearer saw it. Barely visible under the Praxian’s pronounced chassis, a small projection of protoform. There was only one reason for that segment of protoform to be distended, Prowl was carrying.

Optimus sat back on his peds, stunned to silence. Of all the Bots, Prowl was the last the Prime would ever have expected to kindle. The revelation did explain the tactician’s odd behaviour. Carrying altered a mechanism’s code, and some reacted quite strongly to the developing originator protocols. Paranoia, and nesting were both not uncommon but this degree, this abject terror was absolutely out of the norm. Prowl was terrified, absolutely, terrified, and not simply of Optimus but of Ratchet. It made no sense at all, but this was clearly the case. Concerned that the Praxian might try and flee, might harm himself as he made a desperate flight of escape, Optimus inched closer, servos up and open, a universal gesture of peace.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised the bright opticed mech. “Ratchet will not hurt you. You’re unwell, let us help you.”

“Leave me alone!” The tactician screeched. “I am not unwell! I am fine!”

“Prowl, you need to see a medic!”

“No!”

“Well that sounds promising,” Ratchet rumbled as he appeared in the opening of he crates. The sound of the medic’s voice, the sight of him sent Prowl into a tailspin. He dove from the corner, passed Optimus. Afraid to hurt the mech but also afraid of losing him, the Prime caught Prowl with one long, strong arm wrapping around the Praxian’s waist. A desperate keen broke from the mech’s vocalizer, and he flailed violently, nailing Optimus in the abdomen with one sharp elbow.

“Easy, easy,” Optimus crooned as he drew Prowl back against his chassis. He kept his arm low, well under the carrying mech’s forge, but kept his grip tight. With a sound of despair, Prowl went limp. The Prime sighed, and his grip loosened, this was a mistake.

“Prowl, no!” The medic screamed.

From the corner of his optic Optimus saw Prowl raise the blaster, but the tactician did not point it at him, or at Ratchet, he raised it to his own helm. Time stopped. He saw the Praxian’s digit pull back on the trigger, and Optimus yanked Prowl’s arm back. The blaster fired harmless into the wall. Hurting the tactician was now second to keeping the mech alive, and he squeezed the mech’s wrist until the blaster fell to the floor. Ratchet lunged forward and knocked it away. Prowl stopped fighting, but this time the Prime did not release his grip. As the medic moved in again, the tactician began to shake, and then he began to sob.

“What’s the matter with him?” Ratchet asked as he deployed his scanners.

“He’s carrying” the Prime said.

“Well I can see that,” Ratchet replied. When he spoke to Prowl, it was in dulcet tones. “I’m going to scan you. It’s cold down here, you’ve been running your systems pretty hard.”

Prowl did not reply, he just quietly cry. Optimus was not naive enough to believe the Praxian had given up the fight. Unless they could convince him that they were no threat, Prowl would wait until he found an opening, and then he would either retrieve one of his fallen weapons, or withdraw another. Then, who knew? Would he shoot himself, or both of them? Aware that the mech’s rifle was close, the Prime was grimly aware that his next attempt could turn out very definitely and he held the mech as tight as he dared. The only sound in the room were his soft sobs. Optimus did not understand how carrying could have such an alarming affect on mech’s psyche but it was obvious that it had triggered something in Prowl, and he was not so certain Ratchet would be able to talk him down. Could they trust him not to reach for another weapon, joors or mega-cycles from now?

“Looks like you’re sixty-one stellar-cycles along,” the medic said. “You’re underweight, and overclocked, but the newspark’s good and strong.”

“That’s a relief.” Optimus tried to sooth the gravid mech. “Isn’t it, Prowl?”

“Why does it matter?” Prowl asked, with a bitter rasp. “You will end him regardless.”

“What?” Ratchet snapped the question. “If you want an abortion, I can provide it, but it’s not something I do without consent.”

“Prowl, is that why you’ve hidden yourself away, you thought you would be forced to abort your newspark?” The Prime asked, aghast.

“I did not ask your consent,” he said.

“You don’t need my permission to create,” Optimus replied. A keen echoed through the Matrix, and he was certain it was this mech’s voice. “Primus. Prowl, did he force you to abort a newspark?”

“I was drugged in my home,” Prowl said. “I onlined down here. My forge and spark were empty.”

“Damn him,” Ratchet snarled. “Damn him to the deepest, darkest Pit. Prowl. No one could make me do that to you, or anyone else. No one.”

“You are safe, Prowl,” the Matrix Bearer promised. “I swear it, you, and your creation will not come to harm here.”

Now the fight truly bled out of the Praxian. He went slack in Optimus’ arms, stellar-cycles of fear and panic had taken their toll. Exhaustion oozed into his field. Ratchet’s observation had indeed been correct, Prowl was overclocked. The knowledge that Zeta Prime had done something so terrible to his own grand-creation repulsed Optimus, the fact that he had not known, filled the Prime with guilt. The fact that he had lumped this mech in with that monster made the guilt that much worse. Optimus was sickened that Prowl had feared the same cruelty from him as he had Zeta. The Praxian had hidden himself in the very place he had been violated, to protect himself and his helpless newspark from the same fate as before. This was not an image the Prime really wanted any Bot to have of him, a threat, a monster, not an ally or a friend.

“Do you know who the progenitor is?” The Iaconian medic asked as he ran more scans.

“Jazz,” Prowl replied, sounding no longer bitter but exceedingly tired. “We are sparkmates.”

“You hid that well,” Optimus said. “I had not idea you were even friendly.”

“We did not ask for consent.”

“I’d be tempted to hull that fragger back up from the Pit to kill him again,” Ratchet grumbled. “It’s too fragging cold down here for you. No wonder you’re overclocked. You need a good recharge, in a warm berth, and some good fuel. Up for walking?”

“I am functional,” the tactician replied. Not functional enough, for either Ratchet or the Prime but Optimus stood slowly, and carefully eased Prowl to his peds. The knowledge that his creation would not be forcefully ripped from his forged had obviously soothed the worst of his coding triggered paranoia. When Optimus released him, the gravid mech kept his peds, without swaying.

“I want to do a full work up on you,” the medic said. “And see about starting to put some mass on your protoform. First thing, is a long recharge, and you can do that in one of my private treatment rooms.”

Though Optimus’ present was no longer strictly necessary, he went along with the medic and his patient, keeping close but not too close to Prowl in case the Praxian stumbled. When they emerged from the basement, they found the Twins waiting by the elevator. The young mechs looked startled at the sight of the tactician, but noticeably relieved. It occurred to Optimus that Prowl had been responsible for much of the discipline within the rank and file, the mechanisms not worthy of the Prime’s attention. These two continued to have behavioural issues, they had been forced to fight in gladiatorial bouts for Zeta’s entertainment, their brother had been tortured, all these things left scars. But a portion of Optimus’ memories cleared and he could see the Twins marched to Prowl’s door at least a dozen times. Yet they had been worried for him. Could Prowl have been kind to them?

“He’s alright,” Optimus said, Prowl stared at them a nanoklik and nodded. Standing closer to the mech than he ever had, the Prime could feel the other’s embarrassment seeping into his field. That he could feel anything suggested how out of sorts Prowl was feeling.

“You can harass him later,” Ratchet rumbled. “Let Trailbreaker know we found him alright. I’m sure Red knows.”

“He knows,” Sunstreaker confirmed.

Prowl kept his peds the entire way to the medbay, and Optimus took comfort in that. He did not know if the tactician would have preferred him to go on his way. On the chance that Prowl might prefer he stay, he did. As they walked, as the originator to be settled, his servo fell over his forge. It was odd that they did not run into any other Autobots as they walked, the Matrix-Bearer guessed it was Red Alert’s doing. Given the delicate state of the Praxian’s psyche, Optimus thought this kindness was needed. There was no telling how Prowl would react if he found himself being gawked at, or if he came to feel surrounded. Optimus’ spark was still stuttering at the memory of the gravid mech bringing that blaster to his helm. How could he have lived with himself if he had not been able to stop Prowl? Ratchet led them to the treatment room closest to his office.

“Thank you, Sir,” Prowl said, as he sat on the medberth. With the medic’s helm, the Praxian laid back. His optics dimmed and his servos crossed over his forge. It was barely perceptible, but he started to shake. Optimus gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Rest, Prowl,” Optimus replied. “Ratchet will take good care of you both.”

-“See if you can’t bring Jazz back in,” Ratchet commed, keeping his vocalizer mute, and his optics on his patient. “It really is a two mechanism job, this carrying business. Especially considering what he’s been through.”

-“I’ll speak to Mirage,” the Prime replied. “Provided I can find him.”


	20. Holiday - AKA PIRATE'S!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Faction Swap aka Pirate's from last year.

“Ever take a holiday?” Jazz asked.

Since the Maestro had saved his life, Prowl had tried a dozen times to send him home to Iacon. Each time the Polihexian had found a way back onto the Judgement, and back to him. Musician, he might have sung, he might have play a dozen instruments, but the pirate had the sense this mech’s use to the Prime was not his musical talents. Smokescreen had been quite correct in his analysis of the Polihexian, Jazz flirted him constantly. He did not want to enjoy it, he did not want his spark skipping each time the musician smiled at him. Prowl was not a starry opticed young mech. Though he had taken his vengeance on Crosscut, and on the pirate who had paid for his services from the brothel, the pirate king supposed he had scars from his experiences. The thought of romance made him shy. Still, Prowl found himself tempted to give in to Jazz’s flirtations. It would not be worth the discord that it could stir up in his fleet, it could not be worth it.

“A holiday?” Prowl asked.

“Ya know, a break,” the musician said.

Prowl look out at the open sea. Many of his smaller vessels were anchored around them. The sea around Petrex had been quiet since the Decepticon incursion, though he was waiting for it, and prepared for it, the Autobots had not sent their navy to recover Jazz. Praxus’ emperor had not made any moves on his territory either. This was all he had known vorns. He had raised Smokescreen to adulthood on this vessels and those like it. Though Prowl had sent his creation to the seaside villages around his territory, under close supervision of trusted crew, to experience something of a normal life, Smokescreen shunned the land in a way his originator did not quite understand. There was no reason he had to live like Prowl, and yet...

“I take breaks,” he replied.

“Do ya really?” Jazz asked.

“I am taking a break now,” Prowl countered, and he was. He had a cube of energon in his servo, and he was watching the sunrise. It was one of his mega-cycle rituals.

“When was the last time ya left this boat?”

“Vessel. I visit others when they need my attention. I surveyed that juggernaut just last orn. I cannot go on land, I would be arrested. I cannot leave my fleet, there is no guarantee it would be remaining when I returned.”

“Ya don’t trust anyone to watch it for ya?”

“Where would I go?” The pirate paced. He gestured to his helm. “This brands me a whore. Anyone who saw it would either know me for who I am and call the Enforcers to claim the bounty on me, or they would see a run away whore, and call the Enforcers to recapture an errant prostibot.”

“Feh. Ya ain’t a whore. Weren’t ever.”

Why did that make him melt? Feeling weak in his struts, Prowl questioned if he had the resolve to refuse this mech again. He did not know what to say to this. The Praxian had been a whore, a debt-slave, though it had not been his debt. It was a matter of semantics, but they mattered to Prowl. Jazz... How was he supposed to say no? Did he dare say yes? Prowl’s processor stalled, torn by caution and desire. As a rule he considered himself a cautious mech, this was how he had managed to seize and to keep control of his fleet, but he had the same desires as other mechs, the same needs. It had been easy to ignore, or dismiss the lustful looks of his subordinates, to tell himself he needed to keep himself apart. None could be see as favoured over the others, especially in the earliest vorns of his fleet. Jazz was different. Everyone knew Jazz was different, they all knew Jazz had designs on him. They certainly all thought their commander would continue dismiss the musicians flirtations, but what if he did not?

“Can I kiss ya?”

Oh. Fragging damn it. How was Prowl supposed to say no? He should say no. It made sense to say no. But instead he turned his helm and kissed the other mech. Jazz touched him, cupped his neck and held him as they kissed. The pirate knew he was lost. His spark was surging with long repressed desires. They kept it chaste, or relatively so. Prowl could not allow himself to be seen debauched on deck. But he did not want to stop, he did not want the Polihexian to stop, he wanted to feel the mech’s servos on his bumper, on his doorwings. Jazz held him at the waist, and against his neck, and Prowl mirrored his hold. Primus. He had forgotten he could feel like this, that he could love another mech’s touch this much.

“Lemme take ya out on a skiff,” Jazz purred against his audial when they finally broke the kiss. “We’ll stay close, in sight o’ the fleet. But it’ll just be me ‘n ya for a few mega-cycles.”

“Yes.”

Everyone would guess what they were planning, but no one was foolish enough to question the Pirate King. If anyone came up to Jazz to congratulate or to threaten him, they did so outside of Prowl’s view. Smokescreen was out at sea on his little junk, the originator did not need to be concerned with his creation’s opinions just yet. Though thus far he seemed to approve of the Maestro. He had teased Prowl regarding Jazz’s advances, had encouraged him to “let loose”. His creation would be happy, at least in theory, when Smokescreen considered what letting loose would mean, he might have a change of spark. Prowl quietly packed his best distillation of Vosian high grade, and other fuels. On a final, last klik whim, the Pirate King washed and polished himself with his finest waxes. It had been vorns since he had last used it.

“Frag y’re gorgeous,” the musician declared.

“Thank you,” Prowl said. “You are as well.”

The seas were smooth and quiet. They sailed off on the skiff, and weighed anchor as far off from the fleet as they dared. On the deck of the skiff they laid out a comfortable blanket, and set out a picnic. Anticipation made the fuel, and the high grade headier. Jazz sang for them as they lounged under the dark-cycle sky. It was difficult, at first, to relax. He had not taken a mega-cycle off from his duties over the fleet, but as he drank, and listened, slowly Prowl eased into the moment. After the serenade, the pirate pulled the Polihexian towards him and thanked him with a kiss. It did not stop with a kiss. Prowl tasted his lover, touched him everywhere. His spike was long, with three almost sharp ridges running the lenth, two on the bottom and one on the top, they glowed a brilliant blue. When the pirate twirled his glossa over the head, he heard his lover moan his designation, and he was pleased.

As took Jazz’s spike into his mouth, he sucked the tip like an energon goodie, and he explored the textures of the Maestro’s spike, Dangerous as the ridges looked, they were smooth, not sharp. Flexing his intake lining, Prowl took the spike deeper, felt the ridges against the lining of his intakes. It felt different, but not painful, and he worked his throat around his lovers length. When Jazz’s servos fell onto his helm, the Praxian smiled. When his digits tweaked Prowl’s chevron, he moaned around his lover’s girth. Jazz cursed, and then praised him. His servos did not so much guide the pirate’s movements as follow them. Prowl slowly lifted himself off the musician’s spike, to tease the slit with his glossa, and suck the tip again. Again he swallowed Jazz’s entire girth, and worked his spike around it.

“Frag yer so good.‘M gonna overload,” Jazz groaned a warning. Prowl hummed around his length, and when his lover’s spike discharged, he swallowed every drop.

“Mm,” he hummed. That was lovely.

“Lay back, lover,” the Maestro said. “I wanna taste ya too.”

Sucking the Polihexian’s spike, and tasting his discharge had sent Prowl’s charge soaring, and as he laid on his back, anticipation had him shivering. Jazz knelt over him, kissed him long. It did not bother him to taste himself on the pirate’s glossa, and Prowl shivered again. Slowly, Jazz kissed, touched and teased his way down the Praxian’s frame, leaving delicious love bites along the edge of his bumper before he made his way lower. Prowl felt his valve leak, the lubricants pooling under his aft, before Jazz could even reach his array. As soon as the other’s servo brushed over his plating, Prowl retracted his panel, and let his spike pressurize. It had no ridges, but rather lines of nodes that spiralled around his length. Every one lit up as Jazz curled his servo around Prowl’s spike and slowly pumped it up and down. Beads of transfluids pooled at his tip, and his valve cycled down on nothing, the pool under his aft was grow.

“Jazz.”

“Y’re so wet for me,” the Polihexian moaned his praise as he brought his free servo to the pirate’s slick and dripping, engorged aperture.

“Jazz.”

“I wanna drink ya dry.”

“Please!”

Prowl moaned as he felt his lover’s glossa trace his valve lips, teasing a circle around his prominent external node. Soon the Praxian was writhing. It had been so long since someone had pleasured him like this, and no one had done it so well. Jazz used his thumbs to spread him open and plunged his glossa deep. Every flick of his glossa sent Prowl’s charge spiralling upwards. When he closed his full lips around the pirate’s external node, and sucked, Prowl screamed and overloaded. He was certain he heard it echo, was certain every mechanism for kilometres will have heard him. One overload merged into a second as the musician sucked his nodded, fragged him with his glossa, and drank his lubricants like it was engex of the rarest distillation. His servos wound around his lover’s helm, holding him by the audial horns and pushing his array into the other’s face, it only made Jazz more enthusiastic as he ate Prowl out.

“In me!” Prowl begged as he pulled the other off his valve. “I want you in me when I overload again.

“Nothin’ I’d like better,” Jazz said, he crawled up the pirate’s frame. “Tell me if it hurts.”

Sprawled on his back on the blanket, Prowl held Jazz’s helm against his throat, as he cupped the other’s aft encouraging him as he slowly rocked down, slowly breaching the pirate’s subtle, sopping valve aperture. Over the Maestro’s shoulder, the Praxian saw the stars, but he could hardly appreciate the beauty of the setting. He was lost in the feeling of the mech’s mouth on his neck, and his hard, ridged spike in his valve. It had been so long, vorns and vorns since he had interfaced, Prowl felt as if he was being cleaved open, but it was so good, so good. Throwing his legs open wider, canting his hips to take the Polihexian deeper, Prowl moaned unrestrained. There was tension deep inside as segments long untested were steadily stretched apart. Jazz pulled off his neck to kiss his face, the Pirate panted as his systems burned. An overload caught him off guard, coming so quick and so hard, and he cried the other’s designation as pleasure exploded across his frame.

“Deeper! Harder”

“Frag, Gorgeous, y’re so hot ‘n tight. Fraggin’ made for me.”

“Yes! Jazz! So good. So good. Harder. Frag me harder!”

Lubricants gushed from his valve. With each inward and outward thrust there was a delicious, sloppy squelch, and it sent his charge skyrocketing again. Jazz threw Prowl’s left leg over his shoulder, and held his right stretched out. The angle let him drive even deeper. Slick as the Praxian was, there was no resistance as the Maestro bottom out inside him, those vicious looking ridges dragged over his sensors, with each thrust in and slow withdraw. Prowl burned. Reaching between them, the pirate fisted his own spike in time with the Polihexian’s thrusts and he screamed as he overloaded again, his spike erupting messily over his digit and midsection. As he released around the other, his spike clutching, and squeezing over Jazz’s length, his lover hilted himself, and overloaded in Prowl’s core. The hot, charged transfluids washed over the Praxian’s sensitized nodes and his valve fluttered with another weak overload. Jazz collapsed over him, vents flared wide. Prowl draped an arm over his back, and kept him there, wanting the moment to last just a little longer.


	21. Kid!Fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This continues Doradus. Jhiaxus meets his end, and something that was stolen is returned.

Jazz crawled along the roof of the old, abandoned waystation. A bream’s drive down the dirt road, his team were about to make entry on the dilapidated warehouse they had found. They had used EMP grenades to neutralize the surveillance and security systems guarding the structure. As far as they knew, he was on the roof, searching for another point of entry. Instead he was kliks down the well worn road, seeking not the monster’s lab, but his lair. His preliminary search had found the tunnel connecting the lab to the waystation. Knowing an EMP blast would not be able to reach the tunnel, and guessing there would be cameras watching, and traps waiting, Jazz had taken the surface root. He was not afraid of someone finding his tracks. Within the joor the only mechanism he cared about uncovering his presence would be dead.

“What makes you think you have to right to his helm?” Arcee asked.

“He ripped my creation from his originator’s forge,” Jazz replied.

The femme stared at him, calculating. If he had to, Jazz was willing to end her, if his less permanent restraints did not hold. Megatron had taken Zeta’s helm, no one would steal this kill from him. He wanted to be able to tell Prowl he had done it, and he needed to do it for himself. A stiletto between the optics, and other through the spark would do it, or simply one through the spark. If he wanted to save his blades, a swift kick would see her falling over the side, and if he could hit the right spot she would be paralyzed just long enough to stop her from saving herself. Neither was willing to blink first, or to look away. As he held Arcee’s stare the mermech thought of a hundred ways to kill her. He grew impatient with this game. With the kliks ticking past, and the team about to make entry on the warehouse at any moment, Jazz needed to make his move. Arcee nodded her helm.

“He’s yours then.”

Jazz did not immediately move for the hatch that would give him entry to the waystation. He wented for the femme to make her retreat. Some mega-cycle he might ask her what Jhiaxus had done to earn her wrath, but the madness of grief had not left him, and he was too selfish at this time to care. Only when she had left the roof did Jazz make his way to the hatch, and quickly inside. Though the EMP blast will have knocked out most electronics in the building, the saboteur was not prepared to assume they would all have been taken out, and he did not want to risk an alarm or trap triggering and warning Jhiaxus. As tempting as it might have been to draw out the kill, Jazz had been trained better. No kill was guaranteed until the grey had greyed, you did not play games with your prey, you ran them through, quick and clean.

Jhiaxus was in recharge in his berth. He looked peaceful, more peaceful than a monster like him ever deserved to recharge. Energon lust rising, Jazz stalked across the room to his prey. If only he could cut his servos off to punish him for stealing what had not been his to take. If only he could slice away at his spark, one layer at a time. If only he could make him watch is death, but no. The Polihexian silently unsheathed his blade, not energon or laser, but carved from an aquatic crystal that grew in the Rust Sea. It was corrosive, his victim would feel it, feel the agony of it, if only for nanokliks. As Jazz crouched over his prey, the ground shook, and Jhiaxus optics lit up. The blow missed, slicing through the monster’s servos as he raised them to defend himself. As the corrosive agent burnt, Jhiaxus screamed.

The blade found his neck, and plunged deep, spearing his vocalizer, and muting his scream. He no longer thrashed. Jazz could have lingered now, but something had clearly gone wrong in the warehouse, and he needed to return to his team. Though training demanded otherwise, the progenitor of a murdered spark could not bring his blade down on the murderer’s spark. A bolt of inspiration struck him, and with his blade he cut across the slagtard’s spark chamber, and then again, until the crystal crumble into dust. Jhiaxus as screaming, though he could not make a sound, and he could not move to save himself.

“Ya stole my creation from me, ‘n broke my mate’s spark,” Jazz hissed.

He wanted the mech to know why he was dying this way, wanted him to know there would be no mercy. Making sure Jhiaxus saw, the saboteur withdrew a vial from his subspace and turned it so the mad scientist could see what it was. Terror made the monster’s red optics glow near white bright. Jazz uncapped the vial and poured the contents into Jhiaxus’ spark chamber. The Gideon’s Glue worked quickly. First it dissolved the slagtard’s spark, and then his frame. When the mermech turned away, there was nothing left but a pool of slag. His duty to mate and spark done, Jazz climbed back onto the roof and raised to the warehouse. No one questioned him when he appeared out of nowhere, and ordered them to surround the living husk of an Omega Destructor that had risen up from the ground in front of the warehouse. The thing had no spark, it was not alive, but that did not mean it could not be killed. Working together his team sent it to the bit. Jazz stepped back, to confirm the “kill” and prepared to go inside.

“We’ve received a call from Cybertron,” Arcee said. “You’ve been recalled.”

“Any reason why?” He asked. If she had turned on him, Jazz could live with. Knowing Jhiaxus was gone was enough to bring him comfort in even the worst cell.

“Just that you were needed in Iacon,” the femme replied.

“Guess y’re in charge,” Jazz said, and he turned for the shuttle. Arcee jogged up after him. She waited until they were out of audial range of the team.

“He’s dead?”

“He died badly.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

Jazz could not take the shuttle back to Cybertron, it would strand his team on Ardurous. Instead he took the escape craft, and set course for home. What could it be? As Jazz left the atmosphere a dozen scenarios flicked in and out of his processor. Prowl? No one in Iacon knew they were bonded. If something had happened to him though, if they had uncovered his condition... His spark told him his mate was alive, but life could be a very grey area. While he needed to manually manoeuvre the craft, Jazz could only fear. The very instant it was safe to engage the autopilot, he did, and he engaged his long range comms and called out to Prowl.

-“Jazz?” Hearing Prowl’s voice in his helm soothed the worst of his fears.

-“‘M comin’ home, y’alright, Prowler?”

-“I am. We are... is it done?”

-“It’s done. ‘M on my way. Anythin’ ya need from me?”

-“Just you.”

Prowl sounded tired. Carrying was hard on him, this time more than the first. The first had been filled with so much hope, the ones was tainted by fear. They were afraid, the gravid mech that much more than Jazz, to become too attached, too comfortable, for fear they would be robbed again. Jazz loved watching his sparkmate stroke his forge in moments of peace, but he hated how quickly Prowl’s peaceful expression morphed into one of fear. Killing Jhiaxus will not sooth that fear, the saboteur did not think Prowl would have true peace until the Prime was out of the equation. Though Jazz did not believe Optimus would commit such a hideous act against Prowl, the mech was heavily biased against Prowl, would he be able to convince himself it was somehow right? Somehow righteous. He had been gone only quartexes, but they felt like stellar-cycles. There was nothing Jazz wanted more than to hold his mate, to feel his creation under his servo, and to know they were safe and whole.

The flight back to Iacon took an orn, and that was sucking every last drop of power from the planet hopper’s engines. By the end, the progenitor-to-be thought his spark might jump out of his protoform, he was wound up so tight. Flying past planets, moons and asteroid fields, Jazz could not rely on his long range comms and it was agonizing to find himself out of comm range of his sparkmate. He told himself, for the umpteenth time that Optimus Prime was not Zeta, but nothing soothed him. Iacon was lit up bright, its dome lowered as they hung on the edge of another delicate truth. The Prime had so much hope that his old ally could step back into the light. Jazz had no doubt that Megatron was using these ceasefires to shore up his troops, and to develop to weapons. Prime would learn, or he would not.

Bringing the little craft into land on the Autobase’s runway, the Polihexian lingered only long enough to shut down the engines. As he ran off the planet hopper, he tossed the encryption key to the first Bot he approached.

-“‘M back, what ya got for me, Optimus?” He asked over short ranged comms.

-“You made good time,” the Matrix-Bearer replied. “I wonder what modifications you made to that craft. To cover that distance in only an orn.”

-“Trade secret,” Jazz replied. “Told Arcee I was needed in Iacon. What do ya got for me?”

-“Meet me in the medbay,” Optimus replied. “We’ll explain.”

We? As he ran onto the base, Jazz tested the sheaths hidden in his arms. They split and close by glyphless command. With practised ease he slipped passed security, and made his way deep into the base. The medbay was buried almost in the very centre of the fortification, offering protection to the most vulnerable occupants. Generally, he approved but at this moment the saboteur cursed the distance he had to run. Why the medbay? His impression of Ratchet had been of a jaded medic, who had lived through too much already, not of a madmech like Jhiaxus, but if they thought they could Shadowplay Jazz, they would not live long enough to appreciate their error. Pace slowing from a sprint to a jog, the Polihexian wondered again what in the medbay could call for him, could call for him to be recalled from an active mission? He did not like all the bleak and dark scenarios that came to his processor.

“Jazz!” Ratchet yelped when the saboteur burst through the doors. “Did you run all the way here? Jumpy mech... just what we need.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Jazz demanded. Prime and medic were alone in the medbay. He could take them both, with ease.

“Your sparkmate felt you absence.” It was Optimus who replied.

“Prowl?” The saboteur’s spark flared.

“He’s fine,” the medic interjected quickly. “His protocols went haywire and he built a nest in the Primus forsaken basement. So he got himself overclocked, but he’s stable. He’s having a hard time controlling his core temperature. I thought you would be the logical fix.”

“Me?”

“Prowl explained what was done to him,” the Prime explained. “The trauma’s made him vulnerable. I suspect his systems will normalize once you’re reunited.”

Jazz did not have to be told which room Prowl was lodged in. He dashed for the far door, not even trying to disguise how frantic he felt. The door flew open, and he saw his sparkmate, his beautiful sparkmate, wrapped in warming blankets and reading a datapad. Prowl looked up, the moment their optics locked, the Praxian’s optics brightened to glow the most beautiful shade of cyan. They reached for each other at the same time. Before his mate could untangle himself from the blankets, Jazz was there, pulling him into his arms. Running his servos over his sparkmate’s frame, the saboteur reassured himself that Prowl and their newspark were safe and whole. Prowl buried his face in Jazz’s neck. The relief pouring off his frame was enough to knock a mechanisms back, the Polihexian crooned.

“Shoulda commed me,” he said, stroking his love’s face. “I’da come back.”

“No,” Prowl replied, shaking his helm slowly. Medic and Prime entered the room.

“I want to keep Prowl under observation until I’m sure his systems are stable,” Ratchet said. “You aren’t going out on deployment again until that bitlet’s at least a vorn old. You have work to do here.”

“Ya work, Prowl?” Jazz asked, refusing to slacken his hold. Even in the presence of two mechs they had put so much work into hiding this from.

“Probably,” his sparkmate replied. He grinned at that.

“Nah, Gorgeous. Ya ain’t any work at all.”

***

All the stress and strain that had built on Prowl’s spark in the quartexes since Jazz had left faded away as his sparkmate wrapped his arms around. The Praxian buried his face in the other’s neck, and inhaled his scent. Even when Ratchet and Prime followed Jazz into the room, Prowl could not imagine letting go. His newspark stretched in his forge, he seemed to reach for his progenitor as the saboteur ran his servo over his originator’s forge. For the first time in a lifetime, Prowl felt safe. In the orn since Optimus Prime had guided him from the basement, the tactician had become for secure in his place in the Autobots, and he been assured that his carrying and his bonding were welcome. Prowl believed. They had not become friends, himself and the Matrix Bearer but they had made an easy peace. It might have been guilt that had brought the Prime into visit him each mega-cycle but Prowl had come to welcome the company, even though Optimus Prime refused to bring him any work. He had said when Prowl had asked, that he was not about to risk Ratchet’s wrath. Perhaps that should have frightened the gravid mech, but it had been spoken with fondness. Ratchet did have a foreboding air when he wanted to. Prowl did not dare argue with him when he insisted the Praxian take more drink more fuel. At least within his domain, the medic’s glyph was law.

“You are both on leave for the quartex,” Optimus Prime said. “I believe you could both use some quiet time together.”

“Where is he!?” The smokey voice was not familiar to Prowl. Jazz held him tighter, though he did not appear alarmed.

“What’s she doin’ back?” His mate asked.

“Arcee, what is the matter with you...” Ratchet froze in the doorway, mid scold. Prowl spark started to flare, like it was reaching for something. Nanokliks later, the medic stepped aside, and a strange femme entirely pink and white, stepped into the his private room. She was not alone. On her hip was a sparkling, a Praxian sparkling.

“We’ve been chasing you all the way to Cybertron,” the femme said, sounding vaguely annoyed. She looked at Jazz, and then to Prowl, and her voice and expression soften. “We found him in a bizarre CR chamber below the warehouse.”

It could not be. The mechling had to have been a late first tier sparkling. If his Bluestreak had been allowed to emerge, he would still have been a newling. Yet his spark called to the sparkling, and the sparkling’s called back. Making no sound at all, the little one reached out his servos, cerulean optics glowing brightly, as he strained in Arcee’s hold. Prowl was frozen. His entire being narrowed in on this mechling. He watched the little face scrunch up with displeasure, but still the sparkling was utterly silent. At his side, Jazz was frozen. Did he feel the same draw? Was his spark screaming also “this is mine”? Time stopped, the tactician’s helm spun as his logic processor said that this could not be but his spark said that it was. Almost hearing his spark pulse in his audials, Prowl extended his servos. The femme seemed to walk at a glacier’s pace, or perhaps his perception of time has become skewed. As soon as he was within reach, the sparkling wrenched himself free, and dove into the gravid mech’s arms.

“Careful!” Jazz exclaimed, catching the mechling before he could collide with Prowl’s forge. He did not pull the sparkling off and away. In fact Jazz did not let do of the Praxian mechling as he hugged the tactician’s bumper. His mate’s servo flattened over the sparkling’s back and he leaned in, shielding them both with his frame. Spark to spark, Prowl knew.

“Bluestreak,” he whispered.

He would not, could not let go as Ratchet moved in to exam in the sparkling. Prowl felt the strain his mate was suffering taking just one step out of the way. Jazz settle for sitting at the Praxian’s back, arms looping low around his waist, his servos covering Prowl’s own. For his part, the tactician could only look down, and stare in wonder at the sparkling clinging to his armour, spark pulsing and a steady rate against his own. If the medic was annoyed by the complicated nature of his scans, he said nothing. His intakes became harsh though, like he was barely able to keep his temper in check. The mechling, should have been doing, saying something but he was eerily silent. Prowl feared, but he was silent. Bluestreak, his Bluestreak was alive. For this moment. The originator was content enough to bask in inexplicable joy. Whatever came after, they would be whatever the mechling needed, would give him whatever he needed.

“He’s like a newling,” Ratchet said as he finished his scans. “Everything’s there, every component you’d expect, but it’s pristine. I don’t believe he was ever taken out of that pod.”

“What do we do?” Jazz asked. Prowl looked up, wanting the answer too.”

“Talk to him,” the Iaconian said. “Teach him. I don’t know how fast he’ll learn, or if his development has been compromised. This is... I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“He’s learned to fuel,” Arcee offered. “I rigged up a sippy cube for him on the shuttle. He started off crawling, and he’s close to walking. He learned to recognize certain mechanisms. And he definitely played favourites. He’s clever... I thought so.”

“Thank you, Arcee,” Prowl declared, he stroked the mechling’s, his mechling’s cheekplate. “Bluestreak. You will learn, won’t you? You will marvel all of us.”

It might have just been a hopeless pray, but Prowl believed. If he treated Bluestreak like a newling, loved him, nourished him, spoke to him, cared for him, he could learn language, learn self care, learn love, he could absorb it by osmosis as newling did, the only difference was he was in a larger frame. The only thing that truly scared the originator was how very quiet his sparkling was. If he was truly mute, was it an omen for his future? If Bluestreak did not develop past this naturally? What measures could they take? Could they treat him like a cold construct? No. Prowl could not allow himself to think like that. He could not despair. When he had onlined that light-cycle he had done so with a broken spark, longing for the newspark stolen from him, now he had his newspark. The age of his frame did not matter.

“I’ll get one of the double room ready,” Ratchet said. “Optimus, you can lend me a servo. You will all need to stay here together until I’m confident you’re all stable.”

“Whate’re ya think is best,” the progenitor replied.

Like a newling, Bluestreak preferred to stay magnetized to his originator’s chassis. He was not so large that his would have normally been a problem, but Prowl was in the last quarter of his carrying, and it would be impossible to carry him the way he would have preferred. So long as the originator was sitting, it was fine, but he could not stay in berth forever. If his mechling was close to walking, he needed to be encouraged to do so. It would not do well for him to regress too much now that they had him in their arms. When Ratchet returned and declared the new room ready, Prowl had to face the problem as to how to manage his creation without distressing him. Bluestreak’s intakes gave a little stutter when Prowl demagnetized him, but he tolerated being shifted to his originator’s him. When he was settled, Prowl took the mechling’s servo and he place it against his forge.

“This is your brother. We do not have a designation for him yet, perhaps you will help us choose one.”

His creation was a clever one. He magnetized where he had been set, his little servo right where his originator had place it. It seemed like he was staring at Prowl’s forge. Jazz put an arm around his sparkmate’s waist and helped him slip safely from the medberth, and onto his peds. When Prowl was standin, Jazz extended his arm a little more so it was as far around the Praxian as he could reach, his servo folded over their creation’s back. They walked, tucked close together, and entered the room that had been prepared for them. Prowl’s spark clenched. Ratchet and Optimus Prime had put two medberths together, and covered them with a large pad, turning it into a single berth. A smaller berth, with a containment rail sat a step away. The originator did not think they would be using it immediately.

“Settle in, I’ll get you all fuel,” Ratchet said. Optimus Prime lingered another klik. He waited until the mechs and their creation were seated on the berth.

“If there’s anything you or he need, please let me know.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Prowl replied. “You have done a great deal already.

“Ya found common ground,” Jazz said when the Prime had gone.

“He found me in the basement,” the Praxian explained. “I thought he was going to take this newspark from me, I struggled when he caught hold of me. I held a blaster to my helm. I am sorry. I could not bear the thought of losing another.”

“‘M sorry I left ya ‘lone again.

“I wanted you to go. I am glad you went. Who knows how long it would have been before we would have been reunited with Bluestreak had you not gone there. How did Arcee guess he was yours?”

“He was goin’ after ‘m too. She asked me why I wanted him dead. I told ‘er. She left it to me. ‘M glad she did. I’d’ve fought ‘er for it. I needed it to be me.”

“I know,” Prowl kissed his sparkmate.

“Oo?” The mechling made a little sound.

“Ooh?” Jazz said. He kissed Prowl, and Bluestreak cooed again. “Ya like that, Bitty Blue? Wanna kiss y’re origin?”

Jazz did not try and take Bluestreak away from Prowl, but he helped him stand against his originator’s side. The mechling leaned in, and nuzzled the tactician’s face. It was more of a smudge than a kiss, but it was good attempt. His progenitor kiss the top of his helm, and Bluestreak made another little coo. When the medic returned with their fuel, the sparkmate’s we sitting, touching but on an angle, their creations was sitting between them, helm resting on his originator’s forge. All three mechs were thrilled to see Bluestreak hold his own sippy cube as he drank, curled up against Prowl’s side, helm resting on his mound. Tears pooled in the Praxian’s optics, his mate kissed the side of his face. The violation of his theft from his originator’s spark would still haunt Prowl, but that grief and pain had dimmed considerably. Instead, Prowl was absolutely overflowing with joy. This would be the mega-cycle they celebrated as Bluestreak’s emergence cycle, the mega-cycle they once again became whole.


	22. Wilderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues Culture Shock because this is literally the only thing I could put together.

They did not listen, of course they did not. The officials, Praxian and Polihexian gathered together on the platform, and spoke in hushed voices. Prowl could not hear them over the softly breaking waves, and the load thrum of his own systems. He wished he could walk into the wilderness at his back, and leave these mechs to their fool’s errand, but they would not leave it there, the former Praefectus Vigilum did not think they would chase after him, but was the least of his concerns, of course. If he left, they would no doubt return to Petrex, wrench Smokescreen from the foundling centre and return to their original plan. No, Prowl would remain. If this mech was unwilling, the Polihexians would have to pick another. What difference would it make to him? From the moment he had volunteered himself, he had known he had no say in what came next. Why did he feel slighted that Jazz refused him? It was utter stupidity.

“They gonna be at this a while,” Jazz said, Prowl realized the mech was speaking only to him. “Let’s get into some shade. Think ya can walk? Just a few steps.”

“I think so.” The Praxian’s systems felt sluggish, his helm full of tar, but shade sounded like an excellent idea.

“Lemme help ya. Ya okay? Doors okay? Ya had a good spill.”

“I am fine.”

He was. There was sand in places he would have preferred it not be, but Prowl was not ludicrously fragile. Apart from a dent to his ego, the fall had not damaged him. The sun had. Overheating felt a lot like coming back around from a crash, though without the full frame aching. His helm was aching, he was horribly nauseous, but Prowl thought he felt a little better than he generally did have a full systems crash. Jazz took him by the arm, and helped him to his peds. This time, the tactician kept upright, though the steady frame he was leaning on probably had a lot to do with that. His pride would be all the more dented with this, but a blow to his pride was not a terminal wound. The Polihexian eased him down in the shade of a cinnabar palm. Under Prowl’s arms, Jazz placed coolant packs, and then another against the back of his neck. That felt very good. As he sat next to the former Praefectus Vigilum, Jazz pushed another flask into his servos.

“Just more coolant,” his runaway intended explained. “Drink it slow.”

“Thank you.”

“Hard to believe ya stood out there for mega-cycles,” Jazz said.

“I did not want to suggest I needed special treatment,” Prowl explained.

“‘M tryin’ to understand why y’re here at all,” the Polihexian replied. “I know they asked for younglings. My shoal had one o’ ours picked out to match, but then they said there’d been a change.”

“I volunteered.”

“Ya... volunteered...”

“The youngling selected is... important to me,” the former Enforcer did not want to bare his spark to this mech, not literally and less so figuartively. “He and his brother. I did not want to see them separated.”

“Not yer youngling?” Jazz asked softly.

“Not mine.” Prowl looked out across the beach, and stared at nothing. He looked down at the flask in his servos. “I had hoped to adopt them. I knew it would be a battle, I was, am unbonded. But I had a good position, it might have taken some pressure, but I believe they would have been awarded to me.”

“How’d ya get to know’em?”

“I crossed paths with Smokescreen, and then Bluestreak repeated over the orns. First because their procreators were substance abusers. They were finally permanently removed from the custody of their originator and progenitor after the former took a knife to the latter. I lost track of Smokescreen after. I arrested him for pick pocketing while I was at a public event. He frequently ran away from the centre, he only ever came back for Bluestreak. I started visiting them. The centre is huge. There are so many mechlings, and not nearly enough caretakers. And for a mechling with a history of abuse and neglect, there simply was not enough one on one attention.”

“Enforcer then.”

“Praefectus Vigilum. I was speaking at the event. I suspect the crowd was thrilled when I climbed off stage to arrest him. It would have been the most exciting aspect of my presentation. Public speaking has never been my forte”

“Ya gave up yer career for’em.”

“They have already been victim enough of adults’ poor choices.”

He did not ask this mech why he refused to bond. If not for Smokescreen and Bluestreak, Prowl would certainly not go along with this farce. They stayed under the cinnabar palm, conversation fading off into a silence that could almost have been called companionable. Prowl did not doze, or he would deny any suggestion that he had slipped into recharge, as his systems recovered from overheating. If they tried to send him back, the Praxian would refuse. There was no way he would allow Smokescreen and Bluestreak separated, and there was no way he would allow this youngling to be bullied to bond to a strange youngling. Did the Polihexians realize that they had been given Praxus’ cast offs? These mechlings had no value to the state, except as canon fodder, perhaps. These Polihexians had not given younglings to Praxus, no they had sent mechs, young mechs, but still fully matured mechs. Perhaps they valued their young more, or perhaps these mechs were castoffs for different reasons.

“Don’t even fraggin’ try it!” Jazz snapped as he leapt to his peds and stalked across the beach and onto the platform.

There was fear on the face of one of the Polihexians, his servos were raised. Jazz shoved him into the sea, and leapt in after him. Prowl stared at the scene, utterly confused. The Praxians looked back at him but he had no answer. Jazz reappeared, as did his victim, that mech looked distinctly frazzled. Storming across the beach, he returned to the former Enforcer and offered Prowl his servo. Wondering what was going on in the mech’s processor, the Praxian allowed himself to be pulled to his peds. Had he decided to go along with it?

“Looks like we’re at a draw,” the Polihexian said. “I think we outta camp out in those woods for a dark-cycle. See how the frag we can deal wit this.”

“Absolutely not,” Crosscut snapped, and he came marching across the beach. “That is absolutely unacceptable, scandalous!”

“Do you honestly think I need you to protect my virtue?” Prowl asked.

“Considering your family, I suppose not,” the ambassador sneered.

“Consider your own,” the monochrome Praxian replied.

The point went to Prowl. When he watched Crosscut turn back to rejoin the others, he saw the doorwing stances of those esteemed mechanisms. They had questioned or the ambitious mech. No doubt he would obscure the truth, but it was easily laid bare. Barricade was bonded to his creation, because Sidesways had sparked the latter, and had publicly designated Sideways as the progenitor. This had ended the carefully bargained arrangement Crosscut had planned. Prowl was not pleased this mech was his brother’s progenitor in law but Barricade was formidable. There was nothing he could do or say to make Prowl’s hot helmed brother meek, passive, or proper. He would not be bullied.

They did not walk too deeply into the woods. Prowl could still see the beach from between the tense palms and crystal ground cover. He did not need to ask Jazz’s plan, the mech climbed the palms though he had magnets on his servos, and strung mesh sheets between them, make a large tent... large enough for two mechs. There was nothing to worry about, the Praxian did not need Crosscut or the other fops to defend him, he had done more than just pushed datapads during his time as an Enforcer. His virtue? He had interface when it had suited him to, with mechs who had suited him. Their family had never been quite what you would call traditional. Jazz rolled out two berth pads, well spaced apart, and gestured for Prowl to join him. This was fine, better than recharging in his alt mode again. Transforming was unpleasant, with all this grit buried in his joints. It would take a good scrubbing to get it all free.

“What’d he mean by that?” His runaway intended asked. “‘Bout yer family?”

“My brother was recently bonded to his creation,” Prowl explained. “Crosscut did not approve of the match, in fact it ruined many of his plans. But Barricade kindled and rather than quietly relocating to the country to have his bastard and abandon it at a temple, my brother designated Sideways the progenitor, in front of hundreds of mechs. The media was there. It was scandalous.”

“Did ya brother want the mech?”

“He did not want to be a single originator. I think he would have managed it. But Praxus is not kind to bastards. Barricade can hold his own. I have no doubt if the situation proves untenable he will hand both of them their afts.”

“‘N ya don’t need defendin’?” Jazz asked.

“I was an Enforcers for vorns, I am familiar with a few methods of self-defence. In any case, if your kin are concerned about purity, they will be disappointed. I am no purus.”

“Neither ‘m I,” the Polihexian scoffed, then he sighed. “Here, fuel wit me.”

Jazz passed Prowl a plate of gelled fuels. For an outsider looking in, it might have been a romantic scene, but it was not. The Praxian nibbled at his fuel, testing his tank, it did not protest too much. Prowl had a small appetite, he tended to graze on his fuel, working or plotting as he did, rather than to consume it all at once. Again, they did not speak. There was something on the other’s processor, most likely the prospective bonding looming over their helms. If Jazz were to be his bonded, Prowl thought it would be more appetizing to him than his previous expectations, the mech was considerate. In this lunacy, his standards were not high at all. Realistically speaking, the former Praefectus knew he would take what he was given, and that was the end of it.

“Why did you attack that mech?” He asked.

“He suggested another match for ya,” Jazz replied. “The only other unspoken for members o’ my shoal. ‘Cept they were banished, ‘cause they’re sacks o’ scrap ‘n I wouldn’t wish ‘em on my worst enemy.”

“Them?”

“Split-sparks. Tend to for poly-bonds, least ‘mongst my kind. Nothin’ wrong wit it, my ‘genitors are split-sparks ‘n they ‘n my origin are a good match. But Runamuck ‘n Runabout are nasty mechs. They’d really enjoy havin’ an Enforcer in their servos.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah...”

“I understand them not having a bonded, but why not you?” Prowl asked.

“I had one. He got sick from that slag ya kin were dumpin’ in the sea. Couldn’t save’m.”

“I am so sorry...”

“Left me wit two mechlings. Love ‘em more ‘n anythin’ in this world. I can’t just bring some mech into their habsuite. I can’t.”

“I understand. Their comfort and security would be of the singular most importance.”

“That’s right.”

It was less insulting knowing the Polihexian’s reasons for refusing their match. Rather than it being Prowl, it was the scenario overall, and that was considerably easier to swallow. Obviously they would have to find another mech(s). Not Runabout and Runamuch, the former Praefectus Vigilum would raise a complaint if that was suggested in his hearing, and he was a difficult mech to ignore once he had set his processor on something, which was how he ended up the intended sparkmate here, instead of Smokescreen. Perhaps they would find a volunteer. Except Prowl found a fear creeping into his battle computer. If these mechanisms bonded young, if the only single mechs were widowers or criminals, that did not bode well for the Praxian. Really though, what could he do? Better he deal with a monster, than Smokescreen risk the same fate.


	23. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues Circus

No one said anything about how much time Jazz spent with Prowl and his creations, in and out of the Praxian’s tent. Though he had been accustomed to fuelling in his tent, just his small family together, the trapeze artist encouraged him, and cajoled him a little to join the Ringmasters’ and kin for breakfast and dinner. The owners of the circus were visibly pleased, and for some reason it made Prowl feel shy. He did not understand it, how easily these mechanisms could claim him and his for kin, but they had. Even if he had not opened himself up to be courted by Jazz, Punch and company had already claimed him. A bonding between he and the magician’s creation would cement his place, but bonding was a long ways off. It was nice though, to be claimed, and to want to be claimed by this family. They were so much more expressive, so much more kind than the family of his emergence, and of his first bonding.

As much as he valued their welcome, and the belonging he felt in their midst, Prowl was happy to get serving his part. Just like he had expected, the fortune teller’s tent was not just off of the main stage, the tent where the headlining acts were performed. Someone was bound to be put out. Some amongst the circus were bound to be offended that they were not given the honour. He left the navigating of these hurt feelings to the ringmasters. Prowl was just happy to be back to earning his keep. It was such a different life than he could ever have imagined for himself. No one here was wealthy, not the owners, they spread the earnings of the circus fairly across the board. The living conditions were close, and unconventional, and he was raising his creations in a tent. But Prowl could not remember being happier.

He sat in his new tent and adjusted the props to suit his needs. It was a masquerade. No one amongst the circus believed him to be psychic. Most amongst his clientele would not believe it either. Just like the daredevils, the mechanimals acts, and the acrobatics, it was part the scene of a circus, a part of its mystique. Though he had originally begun this masquerade as a means to keep his family fuelled in the tenuous conditions of the camps, Prowl had to admit he enjoyed it. Mechanisms payed to hear what he thought, many listened, many did not but mechanisms wanted to hear what he had to say, and it was something of a pleasant change. The veils, the low light, the cards on the table, they were props, just props but they had become familiar, and he enjoyed the layer of interest they added to his production.

There were jealous spouses tearing through his tent this mega-cycle, Prowl slip back into his role with old and familiar ease. Most of the concerns brought to him were petty and trivial, some were considerably more delicate. The Praxian treated the mechanisms that sought him out with equal consideration. A squabble over the designation of a newling, the decision as to whether or not to chance their paint, were intermixed with job offers, bondings, and breakups. He listened, and he watched as his clients spoke to get a better sense of the subtext they would not think to share. Prowl was not always right, but he was shrewd and clever and his battle computer worked marvellously quickly. As often as possible, the fortune teller avoided giving a yes or no answers, it was easier that way to be right. He gave them vague answers, impressions, and let them make up their own processors. It was an effective technique.

Jazz slipped in through the back of his new tent when it was time for his break. He brought Bluestreak with him, the newling would depend on Prowl for his fuel for a while yet. Smokescreen was taking his fuel with the creation of the one of the game operatives. Devcon was his first close friend. No one needed to know that Smokescreen was the titular emperor of Praxus. It was well that his sparkling had forgotten it all. There was no empire to rule, no community to rally. Those surviving Praxians would do better to be like Prowl and to integrate into communities within the kingdoms still standing. Every time Prowl saw a Praxian, he feared being recognized. Though it had been rare for him to be present at any great public affairs, many of the servants of his household had survived, they had followed him from Praxus. But he had directed them south, while he, and Polaris had gone north. It had not been an accident. Better for them to disappear into the crowd, no one could use them, no one had.

“Ya settled back in?” Jazz asked as they sat together on the fortune teller’s bench. He liked this mech’s company, liked his proximity. Polaris had never made his circuits shiver, or his plating flush.

“I am glad to be playing my part,” Prowl replied. “I hope I can help my clients, in a fashion.”

“‘M sure ya do. Never heard a complaint.”

“Mostly, I listen. They talk. Largely though know the answer, whether they like it or no, they only need a push.”

Prowl wanted this mech, whether it ever went beyond innocent courting or no. This coming dark-cycle, he hoped, perhaps he could invite Jazz into his berth, for more than just recharge. The idea became all the more titillating when Jazz gave him a long kiss goodbye when he left with Bluestreak. Crosscut would be outraged that the originator of his heir’s heir would want to interface with a circusmech but that mech’s opinion no longer mattered, Prowl could do with himself and his creations as he chose. Oh Crosscut would hate knowing Smokescreen was learning slight of hand, and games of chance, if he were not dead already, the shame would kill him.

With Jazz gone, the Praxian returned to the charade, and patiently listened to his first customer. It sounded like a ghastly seen. A gestalt of Builders, members of the Crystal City’s artisan middle caste, had damaged the Tagonian’s friend. The injuries the Towers mech had suffered had been extensive, horrific, and the repairs undertaken by a member of the seemingly apologetic gestalt had been ghastly too. Trailbreaker, as the mech was called felt as though he was the only one who felt anything was amiss. It seemed to him like the medic, Hook, a favourite of the Emperor Xeon himself, had drawn out the repairs, and the pain. Mirage was in stasis, and could not be roused. There was something in the way Hook and his gestaltmates were conducting themselves that made him uneasy, something in his optics. He had gotten considerably flack, but he had insisted another medic takeover his friend’s care while he waited for the mech’s servus to return. For this, Trailbreaker was being made a mockery, and he was doubting his decision. Prowl’s fuel tank twisted as he thought of Shadowplay.

“The optics are the window to the spark. If they lie, so does the spark. A medic with love for his patients, will not fault them seeking a second opinion, especially when they lie on that edge of life and death. You do not believe your friend’s injuries were accidental. Ask yourself why, and what is it they would gain by wounding a noblemech? What would be worth that risk?”

The Tagonian nodded and asked if he could come back again, Prowl of course said yes. He kept his expression schooled, but his spark was racing. If it was Shadowplay... They would be in the Crystal City for another two orns, and the prospect was suddenly terrifying. Whatever the Kaonites had set their sights on this, their former master, and first great enemy? Prowl could not know if the Emperor and his advisors had a sense of impending danger, if he had spies in the enemy’s camp? There was no one he could ask, nowhere he could go. How would he know if it was time to flee? Would he be able to convince Jazz, Punch, the Ringmasters to move on? If they did, if no attack came, would they ever trust his glyph again? The mega-cycle was not yet over, the fortune teller had a line up of customers to advise, as his second customer entered his tend, Prowl set thoughts of doom aside, but he knew the relief would only be temporary.


	24. Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the Blackmail AU. Before the date of the current story. Jazz mourns the dead.

All of Iacon stood still. The inauguration of the cenotaph in the Grand Plaza at the base of the Celestial Spires had drawn tens of thousands. Security around the mass of mourners was tight. They had closed the Dome in anticipation of a Decepticon attack. Jazz was not amongst the mourners, or the officers standing in formation with the Prime. He prowled over the roof of the Autobase and looked down and the swell. There were no designations inscribed on the monument. Both because there were too many, 2.3 million, and that was not an exact number. What census data the city-state had collected had been destroyed, along with everything else. Even having seen the gladiatorial pits in Tarn, the Empties in the Dead End, and the Shadowplay of Sentinel and Zeta Prime’s reigns, Jazz had never imagined this level of hate could burn in the sparks of Cybertronians. How could anyone rationalize the mass murderof millions?

There was one mechanism in Iacon still at work, the one mech you would think would want to honour the dead. The Autobot SIC was a Praxian, one of the few on in the army, he was not standing at Optimus’ right servo, nor was he sheltering with the other few survivors of his frametype. Prowl was not mourning in private. So far as the saboteur could see, the mech was not mourning at all. Bots talked, of course they did, the Praxians amongst them most of all. They could not wrap their helms around the callousness of this mech, the total lack of feeling. Perhaps he really was just an unfeeling drone, one who wore their frame but did not have their sparks. Surely, Jazz would have uncovered something, surely by now. Prime had silenced the snide talk amongst the officers, demanding they be good influences for their troops. Grief, he had said, affected everyone differently. Prowl was left alone.

He was not grieving. Jazz could not wrap his helm around it but the mech was no different than the mega-cycle before the tragedy. Below the Polihexian’s peds, the tactician was working, planning and plotting, as he always did. At one point, Jazz had admired Prowl’s drive but right now it just made him sick. So many more dead, so many innocent, normal mechanisms who had just been going about their lives... so many faces the saboteur could place from the vorn he had lived there. Not all had been perfect, none had been really, but he thought of the mech he had lived with, the talented, determined dancer, and wondered about his fate. Pantera was the reason Jazz was in Iacon right this nanoklik, why he he now served as Commander of Special Ops and left servo of the Prime. He had watched his roommate dance all night before crowds, and study at his workstation near every other klik. Recharge? Hah, Pantera had barely caught four joors any given dark-cycle. When Jazz’s contract had been done, and his wanderlust at once in full gear, the roommate, and sometimes berthmate had been nearly done his training. Strangely, the Polihexian had never known just what it was. It had not mattered then.

“Well, if I ever see ya around, I’ll buy ya a drink,” Jazz said as he stowed the last of his kit. Pantera looked bemused as he turned away from his cleaning. The next mega-cycle the dancer would be moving to a new place, just big enough for him. He did not have much time left, just a semester or two, before he would have that degree of his.

“Yes, Jazz.” the Praxian looked bemused. “We will run into each other in some oil bar halfway around the world and reconnect.”

“It could happen.”

“It is just about the least likely thing to happen.” Prowl shook his helm. “Be safe, and be sane. At least, be safe.”

“Spoil sport.”

Had Pantera ever gotten away? He had talked about following Jazz’s lead and left his life behind? It was wishful thinking. His friend had not been a rich mech, every credit he had earned had been planned for and spent. That education of his would hopefully have brought him off the stage in the stripbonic club, but out of Praxus? Pantera had been cautious, so cautious, he never would have left everything he knew for the unknown. Jazz offlined his optics and grieved. Below his peds, the only other mechanism on base worked.


	25. Artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues Blackmail. Back in the present. 
> 
> This is not exactly anything I planned. But I am too tired to care.

He was an artist’s masterpiece. Jazz hovered in the doorway, staring at Prowl’s bared back and doorwings. Fine lines wrapped around cable and plating, thinner lines and brought sweeps of rhodium covered his handsome doorwings. A blanket fell low on his back, under his doorwings. Familiar with Praxians, and this one in particular, the saboteur knew Prowl was aware of his presence, but he lingered in the doorway another klik familiarizing himself again with the beauty and power of his old friend’s tattoos. It was a shame he had hidden them, and himself, for as long as he had. Knowing that he had not recognized Pantera in Prowl continued to trouble Jazz. If he had known... well, who is to say what would have happened. They had both lived many vorns, and vastly different lives than that brief vorn they had shared.

Jazz stepped into the room, and circled around to reassure himself that Prowl was indeed in whole. The flight home had been a waking purge. It had taken a joor before the Praxian had stopped shaking. He had had no way to know if Prowl had suffered internal injuries. It looked like he was fine, in frame at least. His cheekplate had already been repaired, and the cogsucker’s paint scheme had been fully stripped off, and without any paint disgusing him, his tattoos shimmered under the harsh light of the exam room. How was he in processor? Prowl was resilient, and Jazz thought he would bounce back from this, though it might not be immediate, or even quick, and it was quite possible that he would not be up for doing it alone. The tactician looked at him, mouth curved in what could almost be called a smile. His helm was canted to the sight as he stared back at Jazz. Finally, the Polihexian sank into the chair next to his friend’s berth with a long sigh.

“Yer lookin’ better than I expected.

“The damage was superficial,” Prowl explained. “I have suffered worse shorts after crashes.”

“How was it in a vorn I never realized ya crashed?” Jazz asked. The tactician flicked his doorwings.

“I was never stress around you.”

“That’s good to hear... I owe ya a drink.”

“I would think for rescuing me, I would owe you the drink.”

“I promised ya vorns ago,” the saboteur reminded him. There was no mistaking the other’s expression for anything less than a smile.

“That was a joke.”

“Oh I meant it. Didn’t figure it would happen. But I thought I’d be happy to see ya, wherever life took us. I am. ‘M just sorry I didn’t see ya for who ya were.”

“I did not want to be seen,” the Praxian brushed a servo over his arm. “I was very much obsessed with it.”

He still was, Jazz realized. As Prowl spoke, his digits traced some of is tattoos, his expression was taunt, somewhere between anxiety and grief. Jazz warred with himself, thinking he should take his friend’s servo, and comfort him, but also thinking Prowl was not exactly Pantera, vorns had passed in between now and their goodbye. Pantera had not be hugely physically demonstrative. Though he had seemed touch starved at times, in others his sense of personal space had been almost extreme. Had he found a middle ground now, or wavered to some extreme or another? At the edge of the berth sat that matte paint, Jazz reached for it, and turned it over in his servos. It would have been a regular ordeal to keep himself touched up, but Prowl had managed. They were familiar enough, close enough at one point that the Polihexian thought it would be acceptable to offer his help. Except he would have preferred to throw the tin away. Except it was not his frame.

“Ya thinkin’ o’ coverin’ up again?”

“I... Have I tainted them?” Prowl asked and he looked at his digits, shimmering that soft platinum of the rhodium inlay. “Display them on that stage?”

“Do ya feel like they’re tainted?” Jazz asked.

“Sometimes. Mostly I think it is just me.”

“I thought ya said there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of dancin’.”

“There is not. And I were merely one of the enlisted, I do not know it would matter. But... I cannot deny it or hide it, can I? Even if I paint over them. Everyone knows what I have done. They will exaggerate as it suits them.”

“All the more reason not to hide’em,” the saboteur took his friend’s servo, and turn it over in his. “They’re a tribute. A mural. Ya wear’em well.”

“You are biased,” the Praxian replied, though he did not withdraw his servo. “They always fascinated you.”

“I always thought they were beautiful. When ya told me what they meant, I liked ‘em even more.”

“When I was waiting for Cryotek to do what he would with me, I had a lot of time to look at myself, and to think. I have been wondering if they would be disappointed in me. Perhaps I am not... not worthy to be an honour to them.”

“Primus, Prowl course y’re worthy.”

“First I danced, flashing the psalms all over a stage, showing my plating to stir up other mechanisms’ charge. I did it to earn the credits to pay for Enforcer training. Enforcers supervised the SPS taking us away. They would have assisted in transferring my procreators and the others to the Institute. But I became one. I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Mechanisms thought they were fair game. They danced, the lived as nomads. Sometimes they would rob us, or hurt us. No one ever called the Enforcers. They would not have cared. I thought... There were other’s like them, the lowest castes. I thought they should see justice to. I thought I could try. I wanted to be the mech that balanced the scale. It was so naive. Command sent me where they wanted me. Chromedome wanted to leave. He could get no further than metaforensics in Praxus. He wanted to go to Iacon. I already saw our relationship was at a breaking point. But I went. I could pretend it was a bit to save our relationship. The truth was he was a convenient excuse, a convenient push.”

“I think if yer procreators could see ya they’d be proud to see how far ya carried yerself. How hard ya worked. I am. Y’re an amazin’ mech.”

“Thank you,” Prowl smiled. “When Ratchet releases me, I think I will take you up on that drink.”

“My pleasure,” Jazz said. “When he cuttin’ ya loose.”

“The next mega-cycle, I hope,” the Praxian replied. “He claims he wants to wait until my armour is ready. Sunstreaker is still sketching it. I half wonder if Ratchet has not encouraged him to take his time.”

“Sunny wanted to do it for ya?”

“He suggested it was time for something knew. I do not know how I let him talk me into it.”

“He’s glad y’re alive. Both o’em. Sides raised the alarm.”

“I wish they had never seen that.”

“They know it ain’t ya. They respect ya. Pretty sure y’re their favourite Bot.”

“Because I insisted they stay together. Perhaps it would be healthier for them to have some separation but they survived worse Pits that I could imagine because they had each other. They deserve that familiarity.”

“‘M tellin’ ya right now, yer procreators would be thrilled wit the mech ya become. Ya got a good spark.”


	26. Flower Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues Blackmail.

Jazz did not know what he was expecting, but when he came back around to the medbay, to spring Prowl and to take him out on that much overdue drink. The only thing he did know was that what he was seeing was not it. Prowl had not painted over his tattoos. Rather than the boxy armour he had favoured over the vorns, this armour had smooth lines, and a lower profile. It was not a duplicate of the armour the Praxian had worn as a dancer, it was entirely knew. Sunstreaker’s work had not ended with the armour’s design, he had revamped Prowl’s traditonal black and white paint. Largely the break up was similar but the paint itself was deeper. The white was subtly iridescent, and the black was rich, like a pool of oil. Finished with a fully bodied shine, it brought out the tactician’s tattoos. Quite frankly, Prowl was a stunner.

“Sunstreaker out did himself.”

“It is not... overdone?” Prowl asked, looking down at himself. “I am... shiny.”

“Ya looked great, real great,” Jazz said. Holy frag, he did too.

“I am worried about what the others will think.”

“Second they try ‘n give ya slag at all, ya gonna put’em in their place, just like ya do when they give ya slag for anything else.”

“That is an excellent point.”

There was no question the Praxian was turning optics as they left the base in each other’s company. No one approached. There would be talk, that was inevitable. In his peripheral vision, Jazz saw Chromedome. What would he be thinking? Realizing that his ex was the stripperbot he had been seriously into and somehow, despite being with Prowl for vorns, he had never seen it. Had somehow missed that he painted his protoform. Despite being a metaforensics investigator, he had not noticed a damn thing. Let him stew. Maybe he had not been the one blackmailing the tactician, he had been a complete aft when it came to Prowl. Let him deal with the questions his friends would certainly ask. If he tried to start slag, he would answer for it, Prowl was SIC, and Optimus had his back.

There was a bar on base but Jazz and Prowl went to one of the quiet establishments around the corner from where the Polihexian lived. Here too the Praxian turned helms. They sat in a corner booth, not altogether hidden but outside of easy view from the masses. That fake pic had gone viral. There was no telling who had seen it. Maybe they would catch that it had been edited. Maybe they would not. Even if they had not seen the pic, Prowl was going to catch optics. When he was not hidden under unflattering armour and dull polish, he was a gorgeous mech. Sunstreaker had brought that out again. Whether or not the tactician kept it up remained to be seen.

Once he relaxed, Prowl seemed forget the optics peering in his direction, and over a drink, he and Jazz shared their stories from the vorns between their friendship and reunion. Jazz had travelled the world, but gotten tired of never putting down roots. Inspired by Panteram he had gotten a mecha-soccer scholarship and graduated from the Academy with degrees in international law and politics, specifically with a career in the army in processor. Prowl had graduated from the Enforcer training program, and had gone on to finish multiple specialty degrees. He had gotten involved with a former classmate, and a fellow rookie... Chromedome, then Tumbler. With the mech, he had gone to Iacon. Though he had been hired on as an Enforcer in Iacon, he had been personally recruited into the Autobots. His star had risen quickly, as it had in the Enforcers. Largely because he buried himself in his work, because he had become paranoid of losing everything he had earned.

One drink became two, and before long, it was closing time. They could have gone their separate ways. Prowl had not seen his own berth in an orn, but they went up to Jazz’s habsuite, and talked for joors longer. The chemistry they had shared in that vorn in Praxus reared back up again. It started with a kiss, but they wound up together in the saboteur’s berth, whispering new designations as they mapped each other’s frames with greedy digits and hungry mouths. Jazz stared up at Prowl as the Praxian rode him, back arched with pleasure, as he expertly rolled his hips, and cycled his valve around the Polihexian’s spike. He rocked up to meet Prowl, roll for roll, and buried his servos under the Praxian’s back plate, to rediscover the mech’s erogenous doorwing joints. When Jazz overloaded, Prowl rode him quickly, feverishly, dragged out the saboteur’s overload until he found his own.

They recharged together, for a little while, Prowl curled over Jazz’s frame. He was heavy, but it was a good weight. Over the course of the dark-cycle they separated. When the saboteur onlined, the light-cycle’s glow fell over his berthmate. For a bream, Jazz could only stared at the mech, memorizing the way the light made the Praxian’s tattoos glow. After his ordeal, Jazz thought Prowl deserved a long recharge and he slowly eased himself from his berth. Their dark-cycle activities had left some paint transfers, but nothing extreme. He wiped himself off and made his way out of his habsuite. On the lowest levels of the tenement were businesses, a little cafe, and a crystal shop. Feeling a burst of inspiration, Jazz bypassed the cafe and walked into the crystal shop. There were crystals of every type arranged in little clusters. Seeing one cluster on a little tray, the Polihexian picked it up and brought it to the florist.

“It’s a lovely choice,” the mech said. “Very low maintenance. Do you need it wrapped.”

“Sure,” Jazz replied. “It’s a gift.”

“A sweetspark?”

“Uh... I guess, ya.”

The mech took his time, and arranged the tray in a little gift box, cradled in layers of colourful mesh. Thanking the florist, Jazz ducked into the cafe and grabbed some energon to go. He hoped Prowl was not online yet, wondering where he had gone, worrying that Jazz might have had regrets. It was a relief to see the tactician still recharging light. Placing both gift and fuel on the table next to his berth, Jazz kissed his friend/lover and gently urged him online. This kiss was enough. Prowl kissed him back as came online. Primus, he was beautiful. The Praxian made a little ghost of a laugh and the saboteur realized he had spoken out loud. Sheepishly, he sat back and reached for the fuel. They did not speak as they fuelled, he remembered Pantera was slow to online, he was happier when he had a cube of pressed energon, brewed strong, before he was made to think.

“Y’re brilliant too,” Jazz said, trying to recover from his tangled glossa.

“I am pleased I am beautiful to you,” Prowl replied. “You are to me as well.”

“I brought ya a gift. Crystals for yer desk.”

“You did not need to get me anything.”

“I wanted to. Ya always meant a lot to me, Prowl. Nothin’ makes me happier than havin’ ya back in my life again.”


	27. Orphan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues Blackmail
> 
> IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: In case you don't follow me on Tumblr, I am moving! It's short notice, so I am going to be in a packing and cleaning whirlwind. As a result, future chapters might be delayed, but if that happens, I will catch up after I get settled.

Jazz had the power to make Prowl feel comfortable in his own frame. The tactician had the utmost comfort in his intellect, but he had become terribly insecure about _himself_. When the Polihexian called him beautiful, he did not make Prowl feel like was where all his value lay. With Jazz Prowl could be beautiful, and brilliant, and he was still getting used to the concept. When the Praxian went to see Optimus Prime the mega-cycle he returned to duty, he was prepared to be questioned for his decision to leave his tattoos uncovered, and he was prepared to be ordered to cover them up. But the Prime did neither. Instead the great mech clasped his servo and told him how pleased he was to finally, truly meet Prowl. It had caused the tactician’s processor to stall, he had recovered, and he had understood. He gave his commander his thanks. Life returned to normal.

A better normal, because he and Jazz were together. It was not public knowledge, and would not be unless they took the step to bond. For now they dated, and they worked. To a degree, Prowl was forced to prove himself again, not to the saboteur, but to the masses. Cryotek’s photo manipulation had done damage, but Prowl was a resilient mech. More over, he had honed his skills as a disciplinarian and commander, just as he had his skills as a dancer, and when troublemakers were brought to his office and thought they could put him in his place, they were quickly liberated from these delusions. There had always been some that were titillated by any and all rumours that attached themselves to his designation. Prowl left the gossips to their commanders. A few had already been sentenced to time in the brig for passing that image around. Those within his own department who did not tow the line had been transferred out, not a one could argue Prowl had conducted himself in anyway but professionally.. He told himself interest over it would die off, something else would steal their attention, he could only hope.

The longer he walked about, in this armour, with his tattoos visible, the more comfortable Prowl became. Jazz helped. Optimus helped. Slowly, the Praxian brought down his walls. He was not gregarious as Jazz was, it was not who he was, but he tried to make himself more approachable for his subordinates, just a little. For their part, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe did not try and ask for any reward for their assistance. They had been through the Pit between them. Gladiators were routinely sold to fans for the dark-cycle, and they were particularly attractive young mechs. Many of their quirks came from their experiences before their liberation. It was not in them to obey a Bot because their held one rank or another, they demanded their respect be earned. Many officers would have liked to see them discharged. But they were exemplary fighters, clever and ingenious frontliners. Transferring them to Ironhide’s control had been a good decision. That mech, they respected.

“Sir, there are mechs waiting for you in the concourse,” Trailbreaker said, as he stepped into Prowl’s office. “Jazz managed to clear them with the Primal Vanguards, but there’s some pushback about letting them into the building.”

“Did they give their designations?”

“No one told me any.”

Who could be looking for him? He was an only creation, an orphan. In the vorns since he had come to adulthood, he had looked for the other orphans, but like him their designations had been changed, he could not know where they were. Dead. They were dead. The odds even one of them had managed to do as he had done, and leave Praxus, were slim. Dancers? No. Prowl had not kept any as friends. Friendly such as he had ever been, but even in the club the tactician had been aloof. His community had been destroyed, it was his earliest memory, and Prowl had never been able to enmesh himself into the fabric of Praxian society, he could never forget what he had been robbed of. A thousand questions spun through his helm as left his office, and his department and descended into the concourse. Prowl saw Jazz first, saw the mech looking for him. Then he saw _them_, and he froze.

Backburner. Soaring. Those were their designations. Time had not changed them. Prowl saw their tattoos. He had taken the design for his mouth and his chin from his originator, and the tattoos around his optics from his progenitor. Those designs remained on his procreators’ faces. His originator’s chin and lower lip were the same red as Prowl’s own chevron, his progenitors optics were lined, and accented with black. Frozen in place, the tactician thought he should run to them, but he could not formulate the command to make his frame move. They caught sight of him, and stared back. Indeed, Prowl had gotten his optics from Backburner, and his mouth from Soaring. It was not possible. It could not be possible. Jazz walked up to him and took his servos. Prowl led himself be led over to his procreators. When his originator reached for him and touch his face, the monochrome Praxian buckled, but he did not fall. They surrounded him, originator and progenitor, and they pressed their helms against his. Prowl’s vents whined and his intake hiccuped. It was not possible. He reached for them to convince himself they were real. The frames under his servos were warm, the sparks close to his hummed on the same frequency. Prowl felt tears spill from his optics, and he held to them both. They were real.

“How?” He asked.

“Brothers and sisters from Velocitran rescued us from the Institute before they could perform their Shadowplay,” Backburner, his progenitor explained.

“We looked for you, we looked for all of them,” Soaring said. “We could not find you. They took us away... to safety. Oh by the Light, we looked. I swear it.”

“They changed my designation. I became Pantera.”

“But you’re Prowl,” his originator said.

“I designated myself again when I had the right. I was always Prowl... How did you find me, after so long?”

“We saw a picture on the datanet. We recognized our marks on your face. We had to save you but when we arrived they said you were here.”

“Jazz. Jazz saved me,” Prowl explained. They reached for Jazz and pressed their helms against the Polihexian’s. Jazz let himself be pulled in, and when Prowl wrapped an arm around his waist, he stayed.

“Thank you,” Soaring said. Backburner nodded, optics glistening with tears. “We survived imagining he was well. Then we saw that, and we were destroyed. But we knew we could find you at last, Prowl.”

“It is a fake,” the tactician said quickly, brimming with shame. Imagining what his procreators had been thinking, seeing that. “I did dance... But I never did that! I was botnapped by someone who called himself a fan back then. But I became an Enforcer, and then an Autobot...”

“No shame,” Backburner replied, and he kissed Prowl’s crest. “You lived. That’s the only thing that matters. You live. That’s all that could ever matter.”


	28. Convention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. I've no idea what I originally had planned for this, but this is what you're getting.

The mega-cycle could not have gone off to a more terrible start. Smokescreen had been resistant to go to his sparklingsitter, to be fair, his mechling was a youngling. It was fair enough that Smokescreen found his originator’s insistence that he be supervised grating, but he had earned this restriction. Only quartexes early, the first and only time Prowl had left his creation to his own machination while he had picked up an ornend security job, Smokescreen had thrown a party and wrecked their habsuite. Wrecked was not an exageration, Prowl was still finding splatters of paint and scorch marks. His creation was going to have to win back his trust. Still, the originator did not resent Smokescreen’s displeasure. It was at least in some part his irritation that Prowl was working yet another ornend, instead of spending it with him. Worse, Prowl was at the convention Smokescreen only wished he could go too, but even with the pay coming from this gig, they just did not have the credits.

Prowl stood off to the side of the panel, and largely ignored the questions of the fans, and the actor’s answers. This mech was one of Smokescreen’s favourite performers, he had played the mechling’s favourite character from a book series he had adored since sparklinghood, Prowl had meant to bring one of those books for the Polihexian to sign, but in the chaos of the light-cycle, he had forgotten it, along with his pressed energon. It was going to be a miserable mega-cycle. If he got the chance, and he could find a vendor selling them cheap enough, he would try and find something or other for Jazz to sign. In his processor, he counted his credits. The landlord had raised the rent again, and despite his hopes, Prowl had not received either a raise or a promotion during his review at the beginning of the quartex.

In the last vorns he had thought he had overcome the worst of the scandal and stigma, but some stain still lingered. It had bee foolish to carry on an affair with his commander, more foolish still to think the mech would leave his mate for him. It had been utter stupidity to carry the mech’s creation, and to sue him for creation support. If that aft ever paid on time, they might not have struggled so, but having moved off planet, there was little the courts could do to enforce the custody and support contract. Prowl was on his own. He had been an ignorant little slut, or so his progenitor had said, and all the consequences of his immoral behaviour were his alone to bare. But they were not his alone. Smokescreen suffered too. That felt brutally unfair.

The panel ended, the fans and media personal departed, but Prowl remained behind. He waited until Jazz’s escort directed the Polihexian to rise, and he followed them from the panel through a back door. They avoided the throng and made their way to the room serving as Jazz’s dressing room. The escort whispered in the Polihexian’s audial horn and slipped out. Prowl did not move from his self selected post by the door. At some point, another guard was supposed to come and relieve him, and this was when he intended to check out the sales floor. For the time being he remained in place. Serving as security at conventions like this one was how the originator provided his creation with festival tokens, and extracurricular activities. The organizers had very clear expectations of the mechanisms they hired. Falling all over yourself in the presence of some famous or infamous mechanism guaranteed you would not be hired for the next event. Prowl needed this gig, and he knew how to behave. In any event, he preferred the mech’s singing to his acting, or perhaps it was just the part he had played.

“Prowl, right?” Jazz asked.

“Yes,” Prowl replied with a bit more of a squeak than he would ever admit. He turned to face his charge.

“I was wonderin’ if they’d replaced ya wit a statue. Don’t think ya moved once.”

“I am restive,” the Praxian almost grimaced, it sounded stupider spoken than it had in his processor.

“Why not have a seat? Next panel’s not for two joors.”

“I do not mind standing.”

What was it about this mech that made Prowl shy? It was not his fame, the Praxian was not concerned with scrap like that. Maybe it was the way he spoke, that deep, smooth drawl. He spoke with such familiarity, so casually, like they were friends, or even equals. Jazz’s manners reminded Prowl of the character he played, the very one the off duty enforcer found off putting. Perhaps art imitated life, or perhaps this was some game. Prowl kept his distance, and his vigilance. It was ludicrous to imagine the actor would proposition him. There were far greater beauties, far more alluring and charismatic mechanisms than he. Flash returned, lunch boxes in servo, and Prowl wished bitterly for pressed energon. The arguments with Smokescreen, both the dark-cycle before and this very light-cycle had left him frustrated and weary.

“Thanks Flash. Why don’t ya stretch yer legs? ‘M good.”

“I wouldn’t mind. You have my comm if you need anything... Prowl, you’ll stay with Jazz?”

“Until I am relieved,” Prowl replied. Which was unlikely to be for joors yet. They were down a guard. Who, how or why, Prowl did not know. The inevitable overtime might have been a pleasing prospect but he knew Smokescreen was just going to be that much more upset. Flash turn and left. He left his box behind. “Flash...”

“It’s for ya,” Jazz declared, and he beckoned Prowl over. “Sit, fuel. Ya didn’t grab anything on the first break. Had a feelin’ ya wouldn’t this one either.”

“Oh... Thank you.”

Prowl was tired, fuel was tempting. He sat, where Jazz wanted him to he realized, on the same couch as the actor himself. Reminding himself he was not the sort that would tempt a mech like this, he put the lunch box on his lap, and opened it. Bottled energon, not as dark as he preferred but anything was better than nothing. Lunch itself was an oil and mercury calzone. That suited him fine, it was fuel he did not have to buy. It was not a massive savings but it gave him a little greater a budget to spend once he made it out to the dealers room. Convention fare tended to be supremely overpriced, but then they did have a captive audience.

“Y’re an enforcer, ain’t ya?”

“How did you guess?”

“The way ya carry yerself. Lots o’ enforcers work gigs like this for a few extra credits. After ya didn’t grab a cube that first break, I guessed ya might not stop for anything. I hope this ain’t the first fuel y’ve had this cycle.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Prowl flushed. He was horridly embarrassed. Not even just because Jazz had caught him dead to rights, but because he had not even noticed the mech paying him any special attention.

“Y’re finish, mostly,” the actor shrugged. “Ya been patchin’ it, instead of refinishin’, stretchin’ it far as ya can. The scrap they sell at these things is twice or three times what it outta be. Ya workin’ for extra credits, ya ain’t gonna blow any on a cube.”

“You are observant.”

“I try.”

Prowl was humiliated. He did not think the actor was malicious in his observations, but that did not make them any less embarrassing. It was true, Prowl did stretch his finish as far as he could. Though it was not the cheapest on offer, it was an economical gloss, about as low a grade as he could get away with. He did not like to look cheap, and it was not as if he did not care. Smokescreen was his priority, and that meant making sacrifices. The Praxian did not stare down at his fuel, but he made no effort to engage the actor in conversation, or to signal that he welcomed any further chatter. Primus, he did not welcome it at all. Thankfully, Jazz seemed content to fuel in silence. Maybe he realized he had made Prowl uncomfortable, or perhaps he had said all he had to say.

“Whatcha savin’ for?” No, Prowl could have sighed when Jazz raised this question, the Polihexian had not said all he had to say.

“My creation.”

“Mech or femme?”

“Mech, Smokescreen.”

“Is he wonderin’ ‘round the con?”

“The tickets are too expensive. He is not pleased I am here. Working or otherwise. Metasis has been his favourite comic since he was a sparkling.”

“They don’t give a deal ‘cause ya workin’?”

“Not enough of one,” Prowl poured out his spark, or as close as he ever came to it. “He progenitor has not paid his support in twelve stellar-cycles. I cannot rely on him, so if I am to keep Smokescreen in sports and music, I need to work these conventions as they come, and save.”

“Bring’m tomorrow, I’ll have a pass for him,” Jazz replied. Startled, the Praxian flinched. A flicker of pride told him to refuse, but he loved Smokescreen more than pride.

“I... he would be grateful.”


	29. Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues Circus.
> 
> None of this is graphic but the tag is horror...

Jazz took a final bow and made his way off the main stage. Though he had been away from the circus for vorns, and only back for orns, it felt as if he had never gone away. They would move on soon, circuses were nomadic by nature. Their next stop would be Simfur. In earlier vorns the next stop would have been Praxus. To reach Simfur the circus would have to circle the ruins of the once glorious empire. He wondered how Prowl felt of that prospect, or how Smokescreen felt. It was hard to know what the fortuneteller was thinking or feeling, he was so very guarded. That reality did not dissuade Jazz from courting the mech. Prowl had been opening up to him slowly, and whatever pace he set would be fast enough. Punch’s matchmaking had been successful so far, Jazz was enthralled by the Praxian. Not just for his beauty, but for his clever processor, and his visible devotion to those mechlings.

“Jazz?” The Polihexian whipped around hearing his designation spoken by that familiar voice.

“Hound!” He lunged for the servus-frame and hugged him. “I don’t know why ‘m so surprised to see ya here, but we never did cross paths in the empire.”

“Trailbreaker saw you perform and he mentioned it to me,” Hound explained. “I’ve only been back a few joors... It’s been a mess.”

“Everyone okay?”

“Mirage was practically ripped apart. I don’t know quite what happened, he hasn’t come around. We won’t know how bad it is until he comes around. I keep telling myself if... to be realistic... I can’t.”

“Frag. ‘M sorry. Did he get evac’ed off a mission?”

“No... That’s the strange thing, he got tangled up with Builders. It looks like an accident, but from what I’m hearing their medic practically tortured Mirage during repairs. Trailbreaker chased him out. New medic thinks there might have been Shadowplay but was that before or after he stumbled into that construction sight?”

“That’s an ugly question.”

“Trailbreaker is convinced it was no accident, but why? Beyond that, not a one is a mnemosurgeon.”

“Let’s head to my tent. Which I had somethin’ to give ya, but ‘m outta the game.”

“To be honest, I just came looking for a friend.”

The Prime in Iacon, either he had served, would not have been pleased to know Jazz had counted spies for the Crystal Empire as his friends. While the Avatar of Primus’ state and the empire were titular allies, it had much more to do with sharing common enemies than any real friendship. Another beauty of submerging himself back into circus life, he could make and keep the friends he wanted, there was no one to question him for it. He led Hound to his tent, bypassing Prowl’s to do so. Since Jazz had begun courting the fortuneteller he had spent considerably more time in Prowl’s tent than his own. It was only reasonable, all the things you needed to keep clever sparklings entertained were in the Praxian’s tent. Had it been a happier reunion, Jazz might have taken Hound in to meet Prowl and his creations, but he did not think his friend was in the mood for any new introductions.

“‘M thinkin’ ‘Raj is under guard?” He said when the tent flap fluttered closed.

“Trailbreaker won’t leave him. He blames himself. As if he could have known. It’s not as though Mirage has ever actually used either of us for bodyguards.”

“You ain’t blamin’ yerself?”

“I’m trying to focus on finding out how and why. A simple mugging? Fine, horrible but they happen. It’s the Shadowplay... I know you’ve seen more of it. I hoped you mind know someone who could reverse it, if they’ve changed him.”

“The Hatchet’s the best medic I ever come across. Don’t know what he can do for Shadowplay, but I can’t think of another mechanism. Gettin’m outta Iacon would be dicey.”

“I suppose I can perform a botknapping if it comes to it. I’m trying to have faith in Mirage. He wouldn’t just let himself become an enemies tool. The damage they did, he must have fought them. So they must not have won.”

“There’s the spirit.”

“Omega Supreme’s gone after a lead... I don’t know who, what or where. It’s so odd. I don’t understand why he’s the one sent, why they didn’t wait for me...”

“We have to go.” Both mech turned to face the newcomer in the doorway. Prowl looked both horrified and stricken. It was enough to stop Jazz’s spark. “All of us. Everyone.”

“What’s up, Prowl?” Jazz asked as he stood and reached for the Praxian, to draw him inside. The mech was not psychic but he had a look in his optics, like that of a prophet of doom.

“The guardian’s been lured away. It is not a fluke or chance. If he is gone, the empire is ripe for slaughter... We have to go. Jazz.”

“Are ya seein’ Praxus flashing through ya processor?”

“Maybe... I... I will not stay. If I am wrong, so be it.”

“Get my ‘creators ‘n bring ‘em in here. We’ll be alright Prowl... I hear ya.”

Hound looked at Jazz as the Praxian slipped away. It might have seemed like a rather extreme leap of logic, but Prowl believed his conclusion, and feared it. The circus could afford to leave early. They were meant to leave for Simfur in an orn anyways. He remembered a few times in his sparkling vorns when they had slipped out of a city in the cover of darkness to avoid enforcers or mobs inclined to blame the strangers for all their ills. Prowl reappeared with Punch, Sprocket and Rumbler before Jazz could explain any of his history to Hound. When Prowl said his piece again, he started it while standing apart. Jazz did not let him stay that way. He pulled his lover to him, and gave him clear and unmistakable support.

“We’ll pack after the last curtain call, ‘n make tracks before dawn,” Punch declared. His bondmates nodded their agreement.

“If we tell everyone the enforcers are sniffing at us, they’ll pack up without fussing,” Rumbler said. “Like old times.”

“You think someone’s going to attack the Crystal Empire?” Hound asked Prowl. The Praxian nodded.

“A Tagonian spoke to me the other mega-cycle. He thought his friend had been a victim of an assassination attempt. He eluded to dangers beyond just the scope of a neighbourhood feud or brawl. He claimed he saw punctures on his friend’s helm, making him think of a mnemosurgeon’s needles. If the Omega Guardian has been lured away, he could be the next under the needles. There is nothing protecting the Towers.”

“Why did Trailbreaker come speak to you?” The servus-frame asked.

“Prowl’s our fortuneteller,” Jazz explained. “But he’s more o’ a real good strat. He predicted what the Fist o’ Prima would do in Praxus. Just ‘bout the only ones to survive that slaughter were those that followed him out.”

“I’ll be back at midnight,” Hound declared. “I can show you the way out of the capital.”

“What are ya gonna do in the meantime?” The former spy asked.

“Spread glyph to my framekin. I can’t save our masters. They won’t listen to any scrap I say.”

“We’ll wait for you.”

The circus packed up shop in two joors. They did so without additional light, and with very little noise. No one question the order, though some groused under their intakes. Jazz helped wherever he was needed, all the while keeping an optic on Prowl. His lover seemed to be in a state of shock, but he worked with everyone else to see the stalls, and tents of the circus safely stowed in the trailers of the Convoy members. A joor before midnight, they were ready to make their escape. Hound appeared right on time, and he was not alone. Trailbreaker had hooked himself up with an open trailer, and he was carrying Mirage in it. Jazz hissed a curse when he saw the Towers mech’s condition. There seemed to be more welds over his frame than smooth plating. He was alive at least.

Jazz hoped Prowl was wrong, or at least paranoid. He hoped that the Omega Guardian would return to his post to face any future threat. Prowl hoped the same, Jazz was certain of that. If this proved to be a fool’s errand, that Praxian would celebrate the embarrassment. The empire held a million residents, even as Hound had given warning to the other servus-frames, most would not leave their master in those Towers, whether out of loyalty or fear. Some would make their escape in the dark-cycle, this one or those coming, but more would stay than would go. He knew the prospect of another slaughter was devastating to Prowl. But he must have felt some relief knowing at least the circus would not be in harms way.

“We can go north or south,” Hound said as Jazz joined him. The Polihexian looked to Prowl, hovering in the background and beckoned him over.

“What do ya think, Prowl? North or south?”

“Iacon has more protection if they will grant us entry without new visas,” Prowl replied.

“I can get us in. Lead on, Hound.”

They slipped into the empty streets, and drove down the Convoy highway along the docks. Through their winding route the past the very spot where Omega Supreme should have been standing sentry. His absence was eerie. When they were out of the empire’s capital, they circled around their glittering suburbs and made their way north. They drove towards the wilderness north of the Towers. Fuel would be tight as they drove through empty wilderness, passed the shattered remained of Praxus. If nothing came of this, there would be grumbling, those who grumbled too much could find employment in other circus. Jazz’s procreators were well respected by the troop. Though they had been told enforcer crackdown was the problem, many kept looking over to Prowl, some at least had already guessed it was their fortuneteller who had raised the alarm.

Most would not believe he was the real thing. Following Prowl could dent Punch and the ringmasters’ reputation, but they could whether it. Prowl could too, with support. Jazz had convinced himself this was just a lark, but then the ground under his peds trembled. He turned as he heard curses and horrified gasps from the back of the caravan. The tallest of the glittering silver towers fell. Even from this distance, Jazz could hear the screams. He saw flashes of green and purple as the second tower fell. A swarm exploded beyond the suburb, and an excite buzz filled the air as the creatures flooded into the empire’s capital. Insecticons could eat anything, and anyone. All around him the circus folks were frozen. Jazz stared as building after building crumbled, and he understood it was not only sparkless buildings they were consuming. Prowl squeezed his arm.

“Floor it,” the Polihexian yelled. “Before they see us!”


	30. Rivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Culture Shock and Wilderness.

Prowl was quiet. Jazz wished he could say if the mech was upset in anyway, but he kept his thoughts and field to himself. It had to have been difficult to abandon his career, and, realistically, his choice and freedom. There was no sign he regretted it, but would he tell Jazz? No. Even if Jazz were to ask, he had no reason to believe Prowl would be honest. All the same, he had no reason to believe Prowl would lie. All things considered he had nothing to lose or to gain. None of this was Jazz’s problem, he could not bond to someone on the whim of his rulers or clansmech. His twins had suffered. They had lost their originator, and they had seen the destruction of more than one home. Though they had never seen a Praxian face to face these mechs were the monsters in their memory purges. Sunny and Sides had no reason to be open to one sharing their home, and taking the place of their originator. The thought made Jazz sick. He had grieved Free Wheeler, still did, and likely always would. Bringing a random Praxian into his home and playing house with the mech felt like a betrayal.

Even if this one had not been involved in the long, ugly war. Jazz had not brought any lover into his home. He had taken a lover here and there, but none had been serious. Jazz was not prepared to take that step. Taking this mech back home was much too far of a leap. Still, he respected Prowl’s motives. His own creations’ young age had been a monumental relief. There had never been a risk of their designations being drawn in the lottery because they were only sparklings. If they had been older, Jazz would not have given them up. That was more inconceivable to him that joining with Prowl. No, he would have fled into the sea with them. What had stopped Prowl from taking the foundlings and running? Maybe he did not know where to run too, maybe he was too bound to law to think to kidnap the mechlings?

Asking that question out loud would just be rubbing rust into wounds. He could not be happy with the fate he had assigned himself, even if he was not tearing at his plating or cursing the gods. Saving those foundlings might have given him comfort. Jazz wondered why he was not trying to make a case to him for bonding. He had taken Jazz’s glyph that he was not going to bond to him, and left it there. The question of why never left his glossa. Prowl had no reason to want Jazz over whomever else they chose. While Jazz knew he was not a monster, Prowl did not. The fact that he had gone with him to set up camp off of the beach was ultimately meaningless. His own companions did not give a single frag for his welfare. In fact the mutual disdain was not at all subtle. Crosscut might even have taken some pleasure in the spot Prowl had put himself him. He could punish the brother of the creation in law he did not want. Jazz frowned. That mech would agree to anyone Jazz’s framekin chose. It would not have mattered to him if Prowl came to harm.

Despite the questions circling in his processor, Jazz did not try to draw the mech into conversation. Free Wheeler had always teased him for his tendency to collect strays, and for taking up the fight for anyone he thought was being wronged. His sparkmate had not been wrong in this description. Perhaps more now as Jazz had become that much for selfish, that much for focused on his own creations, and his own kin. But he was sympathetic to Prowl. If he let himself know his would be intended, he might feel more conflicted with his choice. There were ways he could take Prowl on, a second habsuite, away from the twins. He did not want to, however. It seemed like a nasty thing to do to a mech. Bad enough to have to leave everything and everyone you’ve ever known behind, but to be all but abandoned in a strange place? No, that would not be a kindness.

“Jazz.”

“‘Genitor.” Of the mechs who had sired and carried him, Jazz and Ricochet both took more after Sprocket that either Rumbler his twin, or Punch their mate. At least in appearance. In personality, Jazz was something of a mix. He thought he was a good mix of the three. Jazz stood. He had not expected any of his procreators to turn up. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

“Checkin’ up on ya. They chose Roadhandler. Ya good wit yer choice?”

“Would ya expect a different choice from me?”

“No.”

When Jazz turned to Prowl, he was not surprised to see the mech was watching. Nothing in him seemed to have changed. He did not look relieved, or stricken, or moved at all. Did that mean he felt nothing? Probably not. Jazz stretched out his servo and helped the Praxian to his peds. It surprised him that Roadhandler would go along with this. He had been a friend of Free Wheeler’s, an early foil in Jazz’s courtship of his dead mate. Free Wheeler had liked him fine, but he had not loved him how Roadhandler had wanted. The mech had accepted it and he had been on the periphery of their circle for vorns, an honorary uncle to the twins. But only up until Free Wheeler had died, he had not come round once since. Maybe it was not fair, but Jazz had resented him for it. He had been their favourite uncle.

“Roadhandler ain’t bad,” Jazz said, probably smiling too wide. “He was friend of my mate.”

“You should return to your creations,” Prowl replied. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Something had Jazz’s plating rising. The Praxian had not changed at all. He was tall, and proud. Those doorwings of his were stretched out without a hint of tension. Jazz could not imagine Roadhandler meshing well with someone so stern, but no one expected a love match here. With the younglings there was hope. The pairs would be raised together, and encouraged to connect with each other before they came of age and actually bonded. Prowl was expected to stand on that platform and bonded straight away with Roadhandler. Better Roadhandler than he, Jazz thought selfishly. He felt guilty for it. Though he did not know the Praxian at all, Jazz knew Roadhandler, and he did not like the mech. It had everything to do with their competition over Free Wheeler. There was no reason to think he would anything shocking to Prowl. But he did not like Roadhandler, and he could not shake his sense of foreboding.

Jazz hung back, standing with his progenitor as he watch the Praxian envoys lead Prowl up the platform. Unlike with the younglings matches, their were priests presiding to take their vows. Regardless of his feelings for Roadhandler, the mech deserved better than this, Prowl too. They were not going to be happy. Prowl had made the choice for the sake of the foundling. Roadhandler? Who the frag knew why he had made the choice. Maybe that was what was bothering Jazz. In all the vorns after he had courted and won Free Wheeler over Roadhandler, the mech had never courted another, never looked. At least not that Jazz have ever seen. So why now? Why a Praxian. As he listened to the priests, his anxiety grew.

He saw it, the flash of a blade in the sun. Jazz cursed as he ran forward, as the priests stumbled back and the envoys froze with shock. Prowl did not freeze. Rather, he stepped in as he caught Roadhandler’s arm, pulled him in and twisted the knife from his servo. As soon as the knife was in his servo, Prowl pushed his attacker away. Roadhandler charged, but Prowl’s ped caught him high in the chassis, and with a splash, Roadhandler fell into the water. Jazz was on him in an instant. The smaller Polihexian thrashed as Jazz took cabling from his subspace and restrained him. Sprocket appeared and helped his creation drag the still struggling mech onto the beach. Vicious cursed poured off Roadhandler’s glossa as Jazz’s forced a knee into his back.

“You coulda had’m, had all o’em but ya played host, ya cogsuckin’ coward,” Roadhandler cursed him. “You didn’t deserve ‘m.”

“Don’t pretend for one fraggin’ klik that ya loved Free Wheeler more than me,” Jazz hissed, ready to end the slagtard here in the sand. “Ya loved the look of ‘m, the idea of ‘m but ya didn’t know ‘m. He’d o’ been the first to make a peace bond. All he wanted was for this war to end so he, we could just live free again. Ya didn’t do that for Free Wheeler, ya did it for yerself. Y’re a coward. Nothin’ but a selfish coward.”

“Hand ‘m to me, Jazz” Gripper order as he hoped from the platform. “We’ll see to ‘m.”

The Praxian envoys had the decency to look frazzled now. Funny that Prowl did not. No, but he did not look unmoved, he looked resigned. Jazz left Gripper and his ‘genitor to deal with Roadhandler. He did not dive into the sea. Instead he walked up the ramp to the platform and joined Prowl. They stood in silence. As Prowl looked out at the sea, Jazz followed his optics. The sun was setting over the waves. Without a glyph, Prowl reached out his servo to Jazz. Looking down, Jazz saw the knife Roadhandler had hoped to kill the Praxian with, presented to him handle first. Jazz took it, more because he thought Prowl wanted him to. They looked out at the sea a little long.

“So he’s not such a good mech,” Jazz said. “He was in love wit my mate. Didn’t realize he had a murderous streak.”

“It is what it is.”

“Ya ain’t surprised.”

“It was one of the possibilities I considered. I did not expect it so publicly or so quickly. It will only take one death. It will not matter if it is illness, accident or murder. Once one dies, the revenge killing will begin, and we will be at war again. Not even for love of slain younglings but the principle.”

“Ya ain’t the optimistic sort.”

“These bonds are more a hostage trade than anything, and a poor basis for peace.”

“Maybe they’ll keep working at it.”

“One can hope.”

“But not you.”

“As you said, I am not the optimistic sort.”

Silence hung over them as they watched the sunset. Jazz thought of Free Wheeler, and what he had said to Roadhandler. His mate would have been the first to make a match if Jazz had been the one to die. Had they both lived, he might have suggested a polybond. Peace was the single thing he had lived in hope for. That precious dream that their creations might grow up into a world free of war. Jazz watched the waves. They had not drawn his designation on a whim. As Prowl had been Praefecus Vigilum, the chief enforcer in Praxus’ capital, Jazz was a vilicus, a member of the militia that safeguarded their cities beneath the waves of the Rust Sea. Just as he had been involved in the war, and the defence of Polihex’s sea kin, he was involved in the protection of this peace. Maybe Prowl might actually be a good ally.

“What if I told ya I was reconsiderin’ my stance?”

“Reconsidering?”

“I don’t want another war, Primus I don’t wanna see that fear on my creations’ faces as the walls fall down around’em ever again. My job, least far as ‘m concerned is watchin’ and listenin’ for anythin’ that might jeopardized the treaty. We got that in common.”

“What of your creations? You said before you could not bring a stranger into their home. I would think a Praxian would be especially difficult for them.”

“I live wit my clan, are dwellings are all tucked in close. Maybe if ya were in the one next door, they could choose when or if they wanted to hang ‘round ya. Ya could help wit any slag that comes up between our younglings and yours. It could be good for’em to know there’s a grown mech they can call on. They won’t be all on their own.”

“They are foundlings. They are used to being abandoned. I accept your proposal.”


	31. Arranged Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This continues Culture Shock.

It should not have been so casual a decision to make, but Prowl had made his decision and his peace the klik before he had spoken up and not so much volunteered as demanded that he go to the peace bond in Smokescreen’s stead. He had accepted his fate was not likely to be kind. In fact, this had been his mantra. Believing that the younglings’ fates would be unkind had only cemented his conviction. Smokescreen’s entire life had been marked by nothing but cruelty and abandonment. His future would be different, Prowl was determined that he would make it so. Looking out to the sea, waiting for the priests and envoys to calm their nerves, he thought of the futility of this trade of sparks. Prowl had been prepared to face violence, and even the threat of death, facing it so openly and so quickly had shaken him. Though he showed no outward sign of it, he feared. Stretching his doorwings out to face the sun, Prowl did not fear the future for himself, but he found himself grieving. Roadhandler showing his servo, and his energon lust so quickly had spared Prowl a truly terrible bond. Could a bond with Jazz bring anything but grief? It did not seem to him that the Polihexian would do him harm. But Jazz would guard his family from Prowl, he would keep their households separate. Unlike with the younglings and young mech there was no hope that they might develop a fondness. Prowl regathered his resolve. Isolation was better that hate or violence. It was of the more positive of the outcomes he had considered.

Still, as the priests, one Praxian and one Polihexian, called them to stand and face each other, Prowl almost shied. His spark raced with uncharacteristic quickness. This was not what he had ever imagined for himself, an arranged bonding of sorts. It was not what his procreators, may their sparks rest in peace, had wanted. He and Barricade had lost them young, not as juveniles but as young mechs. They had faced the loss without kin to lean on, though they had grandprocreators and uncles and cousins. Their progenitor had left an arranged bonding, broken the bond, to runaway with their originator. The scandal had followed them, but neither had given it any thought. They had raised their creations to think for themselves, and to go their own way. An accident on the range had taken Camshaft from them, Downshift had not survived the loss of his bondmate for more than a few joors. All they had wanted for either of their creations was happiness. It did not appear to be the fate for either of Prowl or his brother.

He listened to the priests, waiting for his queue. They had been mechs of conviction. While they might have regretted the path Prowl had put himself on, they would not have begrudged him for it. Though they almost certainly would have tried to convince him to find another way to save Smokescreen from this very fate. Love, their love for him would have fuelled this, their love for Barricade would have seen them urge Prowl’s brother to refuse Sideways and to raise his creation in their home. It might have been possible, all of it, if they lived, but they were long dead. Camshaft and Dowshift had largely protected their creations from the stigma that surrounded their family, but without them Barricade and Prowl had been considerably more socially isolated, and their paths considerably more difficult to carve out.

“Now bare your sparks to each other.”

Prowl opened without thinking so as to keep himself from hesitating. Jazz did hesitate, for all of five nanokliks. That was fair. He had bonded for love, and had somehow survived losing the mech. Now he was bonding for politics, and for sacrifice. He was saving Prowl, the Praxian realized this, from whatever scheme their next conscript might conjure. It was kind. It was more kindness than Prowl had expected to find amongst Polihexians. At the command of the priests, the intendeds took each other’s servos. Though he tried, Prowl could not slow his spark pulse. He kept his optics trained on Jazz’s visor. If he looked down he might shy. Never, never even once had Prowl shown his spark, or seen another’s. Rigid self control kept his ventilations smooth as the priests spoke the blessing and called for them to step into each other.

“As two sparks become one, none but Death can break them apart.”

“You do not have to,” Prowl whispered. The Polihexian blessing sounded almost ominous.

“Take my servo,” Jazz said.

Prowl took the other’s servo, and following Jazz’s lead, stepped in close. Their bumpers brushed against each other. First just the very furthest flares of their corona touched, but as they intertwined, their sparks wove together. As their chromospheres and then photosphere’s merged, and at last their convective zones merged, and a bonded was made between. They went no deeper, not even so deep as their radiative zones, where the deepest bonds were formed. At this surface level, Prowl could not see into the deepest secret corners of the other’s mech’s sparks. All he got was an impression. Jazz would see no more of him, and Prowl thought this was well. It still hurt. Prowl felt the other’s conviction, his bright and forceful energy, but he also felt his grief, not all of it old. Jazz hurt to do this, and in turn it hurt Prowl.

“I don’t want you to do this!”

At the sound of Smokescreen’s cry, Prowl ripped himself out of the merge. His helm spun, as did his spark. The fresh bond ached to be so carelessly tested, but he hardly felt it. What was Smokescreen doing here? Where was Bluestreak? The questions spun in Prowl’s processor and he stumbled to and braced himself against the fencing along the platform. He looked down at Smokescreen. At first he could not speak, in fact he could hardly think. His helm ached, and his thought processes stuttered and skipped. Prowl did not crash, he did not even come terribly close. But for a klik all he could do was look down at the youngling. There had been no time to say goodbye, Prowl had reasoned in the vo. Finally, as he forced his thoughts into order, and recovered his glossa, Prowl spoke.

“It is already done.”

“Break it!”

“Absolutely not!” The Polihexian priest sounded outraged. Prowl glanced over his shoulder and found that not just the priest but the entirety of the Polihexian party looked utterly outraged. “Bondings are sacred. They cannot just be undone!”

Smokescreen wailed. The sound had Prowl whipping his helm back, and he watched the foundling fall to his knees in the sand. Prowl moved without thinking, and vaulted off the platform, and into the sea. It was not even up to his chin. He half waded, half swam to the shore, and bounded over to Smokescreen. As the youngling keened, Prowl knelt over him and stroked his shoulders. This was not enough for Smokescreen, and he jerked up, and lunged forward to press his face against Prowl’s chassis. His keens faded into frame rattling sobs. There was nothing Prowl could think to say. As Smokescreen continued to sob, Prowl felt tears form at the edges of his optics, he willed them away. The mechling’s despair lashed against his EM field, and Prowl did what he could to sooth him. His attempts only seemed to make Smokescreen’s sobs harsher.

“Why?” Smokescreen asked at last, anger and grief flashed in his optics. He knocked his fists against Prowl’s chassis. “Why?”

“Come with me,” he said, and Prowl lifted the youngling onto his peds.

He felt the optics over every mechanism boring into his back, and he did not care at all. Though Prowl heard Crosscut command him return, the former Enforcer flicked a doorwing at the envoy. It was a gesture of dismissal. The angle was sharper than he had intended, broadcasting his disdain for his brother’s procreator in law for any who could read their language. Prowl let Smokescreen into the brush and over to the tent he and Jazz had been sharing. As soon as they were out of prying optics, Smokescreen began shaking and he turned about and wrapped his arms around Prowl’s next, and his sobs returned in full force. Safe from reproach, Prowl hugged the foundling and stroked his helm. His spark grieved.

“Why?”

“I wanted more for you,” Prowl replied, and he bowed his helm against Smokescreen’s.

“What about you?”

“That does not concern me. You and Bluestreak have suffered enough at the impulses of grown mechs. Not again.”

“What are we supposed to do without you? Blue was so excited to call you his procreator. I was excited.”

“How I feel about you has not changed. I love you both, Smokescreen. I know you feel like I am abandoning you. It is not what I want, but I do not want you separated. Bluestreak would be lost without you.”

“I need you,” the youngling whispered. Prowl’s ventilation caught in his throat. He swallowed the ache. A servo brushed his shoulder, and Prowl jerked his helm to the side. Jazz was there. To bring him back? The thought of letting go was agony. As he tried to form glyphs, to plead for just a klik, his vision blurred as tears filled his optics.

“Why don’t we take’em with us?” Jazz suggested, gently.

“Excuse me?” Crosscut snapped. Prowl felt his new sparkmate’s engine rumble at his back. He squeezed Smokescreen tightly and flared his doorwings. Before he could reproach the mech for his intrusion, Jazz spoke up.

“What’s yer problem?”

“You cannot just decide you are going to take a couple of our mechlings at your leisure.”

“Stuff it, ya sanctimonious scraplet. Ya didn’t give a frag ‘bout this mechlin’ when ya lot drew his designation. Ya didn’t give a frag what it woulda meant to his brother to have’m taken away. So why don’t ya choke on yer outrage ‘n get it done?”

“Why you...”

“Ya planned to pass off one hundred foundlings to us. So ya pass off one hundred and one. ‘M sure ya spark’s breakin’.”

“It is not that easy,” the ambassador hissed. He tilted his doorwings, no doubt making certain there were no Polihexian’s overhearing. That they could see none did not matter. There was no knowing how well the audial horns each Polihexian possessed could hear. Stories suggested, this meagre distance was nothing to them. Crosscut visibly struggled to regain his equilibrium.

“The minors Smokescreen and Bluestreak are given in bonding with their guardian, Prowl of Praxus, in peace bond to Polihex.... Just write it in.”

“I will see what I can do.”

Crosscut stomp back out through the brush. Prowl did not know if it was his legs giving out or Smokescreen’s but they sank together down to the floor. Smokescreen turned his helm against Prowl’s chassis, and looked at Jazz. Though he could not see the youngling’s expression, Prowl felt Smokescreen’s field fill with suspicion with only the faintest tinge of hope. Hope was so thick in Prowl’s own spark that he thought he might choke on it. Praxus’ over stressed foundling centres would not miss Bluestreak or Smokecreen, or the ninety-nine younglings already given the Polihex. They did see clear enough to find potential in most of the younglings in these centres. Adoptable sparklings and newling where given more attention. The abandoned and orphaned younglings were largely left to age out of the system to bled dry to give them the care they needed to stand any hope of thriving.

“Slagsucker...” Jazz cursed.

“Were you serious?” Smokescreen asked.

“‘Course. Wouldn’t’ve said it otherwise. He’s a lot o’ bluster that one, but he’ll do it. He don’t want it gettin’ out that Praxus just gave us foundlings, ‘n not members o’ all their houses.”

“Will you tell your leaders?” Prowl asked.

“Don’t know that I gotta. Gonna come out pretty quick from those younglings themselves.”

“Are they in danger then? When Polihex learns they have no political value to Praxus?”

“We ain’t sparklin’ killers. If clans get nasty, we’ll shuffle the younglings to better matches.”

No society was free from evil. Prowl thought there must have been sparkling killers amongst the Polihexians, along with rapists and thieves and every other criminal element. But if the council that lead the Polihexian frametype would do as Jazz said they would, the foundlings would be at least no worse off in Polihex than they had been in Praxus. Under the weight of hope and disbelief, Prowl made no move to separate himself from Smokescreen. For his part, Smokescreen kept a tight hold on him, being more demonstrative in mix company than he ever had dared before. His doorwings were angled so high and held so wide any Praxian would read it as hostility and suspicion. Jazz may well have been oblivious, or perhaps he did not care. He stepped away but went only so far as the chest holding energon. When he returned, Jazz held it out to Smokescreen.

“Ya must be low on fuel.”

“I guess,” Smokescreen said. He did not immediately accept it.

“It is safe, Smokescreen,” Prowl promised.

The reassurance helped, and Smokescreen took the fuel, and drank it quickly. It was a bad habit born from neglect. Both brothers wolfed down their fuel for fear it would be stolen as it had been too many times. Fuel and proximity Prowl soothed the youngling and it was not long before he stretched out on the floor, and drifted off into recharge. His arm was draped over Prowl’s lap, as though he feared the other might disappear as he rested. Jazz lowered a blanket over the youngling, and settled onto the floor next to Prowl. Prowl did not look at him. Illogical as it was, he was afraid to look away from the recharging youngling. He knew that Smokescreen was real. Prowl was not prone to fits of fantasy. But he wanted so badly for what Jazz had offered to come to pass, even thinking of the alternative hurt, and he could not stop himself from thinking about it.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “It was generous of you to make such a demand.”

“Don’t think I’ll forget the sound he made for a long time. Ain’t gonna forget how ya felt when ya heard ‘m cry.”

“I am sorry. I must have hurt you when I broke the meld so quickly.”

“Startled me more than anything. Felt yer love for’m, ‘n yer despair. Ya didn’t create’em but the way ya felt told me those mechlings are yers the only way it counts.”

“It remains that you have made a considerable sacrifice not just to be bonded to me, but to take them both in as well.”

“I think we’re all sacrificin’ somethin’.”


	32. Boarding School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This barely follows the prompt but I wanted to continue this verse so have more Culture Shock!
> 
> Smokescreen's history is revealed and it is not pretty. Please mind the tags. Please?

Though Jazz had expected to face a few hurdles when it came to bringing not one but three Praxian’s home to his clan’s cavern. He had expected his twins to present the greatest challenge. Yey they had not expressed a single complaint. That Jazz had installed Prowl, and the minor Praxians in the habsuite next to his probably had a great deal to do with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s peace and cooperation. It should have been Ricochet’s habsuite but he had taken a position guarding the colony beneath the waves and so it had been all but standing all but empty for stellar-cycles. So far as the twins were concerned, the Praxians were just neighbours, and Jazz had not disabused them of this notion. They had been more intrigued by the unusual frame attributes the Praxians were known for than frightened. Tear ‘n Chase had taken on a new form. The twins felt challenged to uncover the tricks to sneaking up on their new playmates. Bluestreak was only a vorn younger than them, he had quickly become their favourite mechanism in the world. Smokescreen came second but only just. Jazz had not expected the youngling to do or to be much of anything for his twins, but Smokescreen indulged their antics, and taught them magic tricks, and played their games. Though they largely focused their mischief and mayhem on the mechlings, they were becoming bolder when it came to Prowl. For his part, Prowl tolerated their intrusion into his space. Maybe, he even indulged them for it.

The hurdles were not coming from the twins, or Bluestreak or Prowl. Rather, it was Smokescreen that was causing the most conflict, though not at all at home. At home, Smokescreen amiable, though painfully quiet if Jazz was about. Whenever Jazz turned up, which happened with more frequency than the Polihexian had expected, the youngling was immediately on guard. One moment he might be laughing with the sparklings, but as soon as he caught sight of Jazz, he went mute. Jazz had not noticed immediately but just this last orn he had finally realized that whenever they were all together Smokescreen would put himself between Jazz and Bluestreak, and Jazz and Prowl if he could get away with it. He kept his doorwings stretched out, making himself bigger than he was, and he was already nearly tall as Jazz. It hinted to some of the scrap the foundling had been through before Prowl had come on to the scene. As he was a patient mech, Jazz pretended he did not notice what Smokescreen was doing. He was a physically demonstrative with the twins as he had always been, but he tried to treat the Praxians with a bit wider a berth. Smokescreen absolutely bristled when Jazz even brushed Bluestreak or Prowl with his servo or shoulder in those moments where he had not placed himself between them.

His integration into the clan’s school was going badly. He had gone home with notices informing Jazz of his misconduct, usually defiance, or bad language, five times in two quartexes. It annoyed Jazz that this missives continued to be directed at him, instead of Prowl as they had both requested. The administration largely behaved as if Prowl did not exist. This time, however Jazz had been summoned to speak to the administrators. There had been a fight, and Smokescreen had done some real damage. Foreboding filled the Polihexian. He would have preferred for Prowl to handle this. He was the mechling’s real guardian. But a half joor before the call had come in, another had come from Bluestreak’s and twins’ school. The Praxian sparkling was running a fever, and wheezing a little, and Prowl had gone to fetch him home. Jazz had left him a note to come to the secondary school after he had Bluesteak settled. Sprocket was waiting to take charge of Bluestreak. In the mean time, the seriousness of the situation forced Jazz to attend. Primus, Smokescreen had broken more than one youngling’s olfactory ridge, or digits.

Upon his arrival, an administrator directed Jazz to the principal’s office. He winced as he walked down the empty hallway, he had made more than one trip like this himself as a youngling. Neither he nor Ricochet had been terribly well behaved. Jazz had been called to meet with the twins, and now Bluestreak’s principal a few times when Sideswipe’s inclination towards mischief led them into mayhem. Nothing ever so severe as this. There was a chance that Prowl was blinded by his love for the youngling, and a measure of guilt. But there was just as much a chance that Smokescreen had be gawded into lashing out. Neither Jazz nor Prowl had been naive enough to think that Smokescreen’s integration into a Polihexian school, surrounded by Polihexian youths, was going to go perfectly smoothly. Still, this was so much worse than Jazz has anticipated. He saw Smokescreen sitting on a bench outside the principal’s office, looking sullen. When he saw Jazz, he scowled.

“Anything I outta know before I talk to Principal Jackpot?” Jazz asked. Silence was his own response. “Okay. Prowl’s just gettin’ Bluestreak from school. Caught a bug. He’ll be here soon.”

More silence. Jazz considered himself to be a personal mech, and generally good with sparklings and younglings. But Smokescreen scarcely said a glyph to him, and he never looked at Jazz with anything less than a scowl. Patience, Jazz reminded himself. The youngling had baggage. His already uneasy life had been entirely uprooted so he would not be separated from his would be guardian. If he expressed regret, Jazz was sure Prowl would arrange for him to return to Praxus. So far as Jazz knew, Smokescreen was where he wanted to be, or at least he was with whom he wanted to be. That did not mean he was happy. Still. Jazz was not going to assume Smokescreen had exploded without justification. If the youngling would not explain himself, Jazz would get answer from someone else. He knocked on the principal’s door.

“I came quick as I could,” he said as he stepped into Jackpot’s office. “His procreator’ll be along soon... So... Smokescreen got into a fight?”

“Fight... So far as I’ve gathered, he did all the fightin’. Put three other mechlings in the infirmary.”

“Why?”

“I’ve asked him, but he isn’t speakin’. Vilicus Jazz, I am recommendin’ ya have Smokescreen evaluated. His behaviour is so far outside the norm. He is defiant, beyond the norm for his age. We could work with that but assaulting three classmates without cause... My brother teaches at a boarding school for troubled mechlings. It could do ‘m good to be instructed by experts.”

“That seems-” there was a large crash. Jazz forgot his train of thought and threw the door open to see Smokescreen standing in the doorway, plating flared, and doorwings spread wide. The bench he had been standing on had been tossed down the hall. His optics were glowing near white, and his mouth was curled back in a snarl. “-Smokescreen...”

“Get fragged!”

He bolted. Jazz gave chase. It was not a much of a chase, Smokescreen was quick but he was hampered by the lowlight, and Jazz was not. Before the youngling could whip around the corner, Jazz caught him by the shoulder and pulled him back. Smokescreen immediately went on the attack. Dead centre behind him, it was easily to block the blows from those doorwings with just his own mass. Trained for vorns in combat, Jazz dodged the younglings elbows. He quickly looped his arms around Smokescreen’s, and trapped the young mech’s arms at his sides. Still, Smokescreen thrashed. Vitriol poured from his throat. Curses more detailed, and more vicious than any Jazz had heard from even hardened soldiers. He crooned at the youngling, and tried to talk him down. It had an effect, but not one he had expected.

“Just relax,” Jazz said, voice hushed and smooth.

Smokescreen made a sound. A warble? A whimper? He started to shake. The fight all but bled out of him, and then the youngling collapsed. When Jazz released him, Smokescreen backed up against the mall, and covered his face with his arms. His vents came in faster and faster gasps. It was clear the mechling was hyperventilating. That was how Prowl found them, Smokescreen curled up on the floor, gasping, and Jazz kneeling close, at a loss for how to help. He was happy to scoot to the side so Prowl could kneel in front of Smokescreen. Interestingly, Prowl did not reach for the youngling, but he spoke. Softly, he reassured Smokescreen that he was safe, and he coached him to even out his ventilations. Slowly, the mechling did as he was told, and slowly he unfurled. He crawled over to Prowl and collapsed against him. Now Prowl touched him. He held his adopted creation and stroked his back as he chittered low in his throat.

“I messed up,” Smokescreen whimpered.

“What happened?” Prowl asked.

“I asked my homeroom teacher what to do. He told me to ignore them and they’d get bored. I tried. But I couldn’t. They wouldn’t stop.”

“What were they doing?”

“Gropping me!” the youngling exclaimed, his voice cracking. “They kept grabbing, me and gropping and pawing at my doorwings. I tried to keep my back to the wall but then I couldn’t see. Every mega-cycle. They wouldn’t stop. I just... lost it.”

“How long has this been going on?” His guardian asked. For the first time since they had met, Jazz could identify an emotion in Prowl’s EM field. Outrage.

“Since the second mega-cycle.”

“You did not tell me.”

“I didn’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“You will never be trouble to me. I will make them stop,” Prowl promised. His voice was still quiet but there was a hard edge that suggested he was more than capable of keeping this promise. He stroked Smokescreen’s tear stained face. The mechlings bowed his helm. “You have my glyph, they will not touch you again. Jazz. I would like to speak to the principal, as well as Fizzle.”

“Not a problem,” Jazz assured him. “I’ll show ya the way.”

“Did you want to stay in the hall with Jazz while I speak to them? Or would you prefer to stay with me.”

“Stay,” Smokescreen said. “I don’t wanna sit in the hall while mechanisms talk about me.”

Inwardly, Jazz winced. He was not clear if this was a dig in his direction. The mechling did not so much as glance in his direction. No. Smokescreen looked at Prowl like he the single crystal glowing in the darkness. Could he have been in love with Prowl? Not just loved him as a caretaker but been properly in love with him? Primus, Jazz hoped not. Hero worship was fine but... Smokescreen was such a young mech, a very clearly damaged one. Could their have been a seedy secret hiding in Prowl’s spark? Jazz had felt only that one flash of love and grief, and the core of silent strength that was his spark. He knew nothing of the mech himself. Nothing. Forcing a smile on his lips, and willing those thoughts aside, he offered his servos to his sparkmate and creation by bonding. Prowl did not hesitate, Smokescreen did. But when the youngling put his servo in Jazz’s palms, he guided them to their peds.

“I realize ya heard what Principal Jackpot said, Smokescreen. I wanna promise ya somethin’, ‘n I want ya to believe me. I will never agree to ya bein’ sent away. Yer home’s here. Ya got my glyph.”

Smokescreen released his servo and wrapped his arms around Prowl’s arm. Jazz walked alongside them. He hoped the youngling believe him. If he did not, time would show him that Jazz was a mech who kept his promises. The way Smokescreen had described what his classmates had been doing to him gave Jazz pause. Groping. Pawing. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe Jazz was reading too much into it, but the subtext he was catching for the Praxians was sexual. The long war between Polihex and Praxus had given Jazz opportunity and need to learn about the surface dwelling frametype. Every Polihexian involved in the conflict had been instructed on the best ways to take a Praxian out. Their doorwings were their most obvious weakness, or so he had been told. Jazz had found the idea that a mech could be taken out just by the damaging of a bit of kibble. But maybe those stories of their sensitivity had not be so inflated as he had thought.

“Jackpot, my sparkmate Prowl has some questions for you, ‘n Smokescreen’s homeroom teacher, Fizzle.”

“Oh, of course,” Jackpot said. He paged the teacher. “You can have a seat. He’ll be a klik.”

“I would prefer to stand,” Prowl replied. Smokescreen remained wedged to his side, helm down. Wanting to present a united front, Jazz remained standing as well. Fizzle joined them within the klik, and Prowl did not waste a klik.

“What do you intend to do about those mechlings?” He demanded. The command in his question came less from his voice and more from his posture, and the focused glint of his optics. His field carried rippled with it, and yet revealed no emotion at all. There was not question he had spent vorns serving the enforcers.

“What do ya mean?” Jackpot asked.

“What is their punishment?”

“Their punishment?”

“They have been harassing Smokescreen for mega-cycles. When he sought assistance from his teacher he was told they would get tired of it. How long was he supposed to let them fondle him before any of you intended to intervene?”

“Y’re makin’ it sound sexual!” Fizzle exclaimed.

“Because it is!” Prowl’s voice was cold and hard. “Touching a Praxian’s doorwings is no different than sticking your servo between his legs. He asked you for help, Fizzle, and you rebuffed him. I am willing to believe you did so in ignorance. Now I want to know, Principal Jackpot, what is to be done with the mechlings who have been molesting Smokescreen for quartexes?”

The mechs were struck dumb, so was Jazz. He circled back in his helm and tried to reassure himself that he had not accidentally felt his sparkmate up at any point in their relationship. No. No. Thank frag. Smokescreen cringed. Jazz saw him bite his lip, and tighten his grip on Prowl. In his processor he connected the dots and it made his spark sick. Though their bond was hardly a deep one, the anger in Prowl’s spark was potent enough that Jazz could feel it. Anger and guilt. The other Polihexians slowly got over the shock. Fizzle’s visor went black as he reset his optics. It was clear to Jazz that he felt guilty, as he damn well should. Jackpot looked alarmed. Neither said anything right away as they came to terms with just what find of mess they were in.

“I’m sorry, Smokescreen,” Fizzle spoke first. “I shoulda taken ya seriously.”

“You are quite right,” Prowl said. “It should never be put on a victim to humour a bully for any length of time, no matter the nature of the harassment.”

“Do you want me to call in enforcers?” Jackpot asked.

“Yes,” Jazz interjected. “They gotta know, their ‘creators gotta know this is serious.”

The enforcers came within half a joor. Jazz hung back though he stayed with the Praxians as the Enforcer Clampdown as his question. Smokescreen never let go of Prowl’s arm as he detailed the harassment he had been experiencing mega-cycle after mega-cycle. From what Jazz was hearing, his harassers had probably not understood the nature of how their bullying would be interpreted by their victim. Ignorance was not an excuse. Even if they had not intended their manhandling to be sexual in nature, their behaviour should still be read as bullying, and assault. They should have stopped when Smokescreen had told them to. Fizzle should have done more than told Smokescreen to ignore it. Younglings were often impulsive and thoughtless. Teachers were often overworked and overwhelmed. For their part, the enforcer was bound by the laws of Polihex and there was no law interpreting non consensual or consensual touching of doorwings. To his credit Clampdown seemed to take Smokescreen’s complaintt seriously.

“My partner is interviewing the other mechlings,” he said. “We’ll make sure they understand how serious this is, make sure they cut it out. I don’t think they’re gonna be charges. Polihex’s code don’t consider doorwings ‘n the like.”

“What about charges for assault?” Prowl asked.

“Since Smokescreen wasn’t damage, I don’t think anythin’ like that would stick.”

“You intend to merely lecture them.”

“Our servos are pretty well tied here.”

Jazz felt anger surge through their bond, some of it was his own. Prowl showed no outward sign of the growing rage. This was something Jazz had uncovered in the quartexes since their bonding. His sparkmate may have passed for a drone or a mech without a functioning emotional cortex in most company. Through their bond, Jazz had learned Prowl felt deep emotions. For some reason, he chose to conceal them. It did not seem like a simple cultural quirk. The other Praxians he had encountered, Ambassador Crosscut came to processor, had not come off nearly so stoic or cold. Perhaps it was the training of an Enforcer. Jazz did not know how best or how wise it would be to ask. He did not want the question to come off as an insult, and he did not want breech some cultural taboo.

“Can I request a protective order be filed against them on Smokescreen’s behalf?”

“Sure,” the investigator said. “Be warned their procreators might do the same against Smokescreen. He did some damage. They might have better luck filing charges.”

“I assure you I will fight any such attempts,” the Praxian promised. Jazz nodded his helm in agreement. “Smokescreen had every right to defend himself.”

“Like I said, he did some damage. Best case to hope for is everyone learns a lesson. ‘N it don’t happen again.”

“I will file for the order immediately,” Prowl declared, undaunted. Clampdown nodded, and left. Prowl did not move. He was rigid were he stood, his spark was bubbling over. It only lasted until Smokescreen turned into him, hiding his face in his guardian’s plating.

“I fragged up,” he murmured.

“No,” Prowl said.

“No,” Jazz echoed. “We’ll fight for that order. ‘N any scrap those slaggers’ ‘creators try. Ya do got a right to defend yerself, Prowl’s dead right. Being Praxian don’t change that at all.”

The mechling did not appear convinced. They left the school, classes long over. Jazz was not worried about the twins; he had arranged for his originator to pick them up. Just as he had arranged for Sprocket to watch Bluestreak. There were good odds his other progenitor, Rumbler would be with Punch and the twin. His family were keeping a good step pack from his second household, distance Jazz thought Prowl probably appreciated. Their bonding had made Jazz step-creator to Prowl’s newly adopted creations, and by rote his ‘creators were their step grand-creators. But given the nature of this bonding, his procreators had not stepped in to make any claim to Bluestreak or Smokescreen. Jazz did not know if they would want to welcome the former foundlings as their true kin, or if they would prefer the status quo. Without knowing what Prowl would prefer, Jazz had no plans to discuss the matter with his procreators. Legally, he was step-creator to the Praxian mechlings, but in practice they were Prowl’s, and he was not going to step on his peds. Jazz escorted his sparkmate and step-creation home. Sprocket stood up from his chair in the livingroom when they entered. Bluestreak was curled up on the couch, watching a holo-vid. He sat up part way and looked over to his brother.

“Are you feeling sick too?” His intakes made a little wheeze when he spoke. Some rest, and medgrade would set him right. If he got worse, or if Prowl got uneasy, they would take him to a medic. Right now, he did not look too bad off.”

“Yeah,” Smokescreen said.

“Then you can cuddle with me!” Bluestreak declared. “Sunstreaker and Sideswipe couldn’t come over or I might make them sick. But if you’re already sick than we can cuddle.”

“Sure. Shuffle over.”

Bluestreak spoke like he could not wait to let the glyphs pour off his glossa. He was giddy and cheerful, an absolute delight of a mechling. Smokescreen joined him on the couch. Rather than tuck in at his side, Bluestreak climbed into the lap, and they curled up together under the blanket. It looked to Jazz like being with his little brother had a therapeautic affect on Smokescreen. If he caught the bug, he might yet believe it was worth it. Prowl thanked Sprocket for watching over Bluestreak. He looked and sounded so grave. Sprocket cheerfully replied that it had been no trouble. Jazz hung back again. His progenitor clapped his shoulder as he showed himself out, saying Rumbler had prepared dinner for them all. Though he thought he out to follow, Jazz remained. Prowl crossed the room and tucked the blanket around his creations. He did not go to sit on the chair Sprocket had abandoned, he slipped off into the kitchen, Jazz followed after him.

“My ‘genitor, Rumbler made dinner back at my place,” Jazz said. “I’ll bring y’all o’er some... if that works for ya.”

“That would be helpful,” Prowl replied, fiddling with the energon press, brewing himself that black poison he favoured.

“I’ll bring it ‘round in a joor. After I see to the twins.”

“Thank you.”

His answers were stilted. It seemed like Prowl was operating on autopilot but he had his rights. The fact that Enforcer Clampdown had already given up any idea of pursuing even the most minor of charges against the younglings that had been tormenting his creation would be maddening. As a former enforcer, he would have known Praxian code, known what he could have done if they were in Praxus. But this was not Praxus, and Prowl was no longer an enforcer. He was a housemech. Jazz was meeting with him, bringing him into his investigations where he had cause. But mostly Prowl was at home, and alone when the mechlings were in school. It was a vastly different life than he had lived. If he was miserable, he hid it well. If he was happy... regardless of what he was or was not feeling, he hid it well. Except for those surges of anger Jazz had felt standing with Prowl at the school, and a the rare surges in the quartexes priorr, he mostly had no idea what his sparkmate was feel. Prowl kept his emotions close to his chassis.

The twins lunged at him when he stepped into their/his habsuite. They swung from his arms and gladly proclaimed how happy they were he was home. No one had said anything to them regarding Smokescreen’s trouble at school. Sideswipe declared he hoped Bluestreak got over his bug quickly, he wanted to go over and play with his friend, Sunstreaker echoed this sentiment. It occurred to Jazz that the twins always went over to Prowl’s habsuite. Neither Bluestreak nor Smokescreen ever came over here. Was this intentional on Prowl’s part? Did he prefer to keep his mechlings close? Or did he think Jazz would not want them in his space. This two households slag was complicated business, and Jazz was unconvinced that he was pulling it off at all. After fuelling with his procreators and creations, Jazz made plates of fuel for the Praxians, and returned to Prowl’s habsuite.

“Hey, mechlings, got dinner for ya,” he declared. Jazz was surprised Prowl was not in the living room with them. “Where’s Prowl at?”

“Kitchen,” Bluestreak piped up.

“I’ll bring’m his plate. Feelin’ better Bluestreak?”

“Maybe. I’m bored of laying around.”

“Of course you are,” Smokescreen said. The youngling looked better. At least Jazz thought he did. “Thanks...”

“Y’re welcome, Smokescreen. If ya get a good dark-cycle’s recharge, Bluestreak, maybe y’ll be up for playin’ tomorrow. But ya best off restin’, ‘n lettin’ yer self-repair systems do their thing. Now fuel up. ‘M gonna go see what Prowl’s up to.”

Leaving the mechlings with their fuel, Jazz walked over to the kitchen. Prowl was there, as they had said he would be. He smelled the Praxian’s work, before he saw it. His sparkmate was at the counter, working dough as something else, rich and sweet, baked in the oven. Early on, Prowl had professed a lack of cooking skills. Apparently, this did not pass on to baking, or perhaps he was just practising. Jazz announced himself and put Prowl’s plate down on the table. Prowl only nodded as he continued to work the dough. It did not seem like this was something new to him. His handle of the pale purple dough with familarity, and a great deal of force. He was scowling, Jazz realized. His brow ridge was furrowed, and jaw was set. After a couple of kliks, Prowl covered the dough and stepped back.

“I didn’t realize ya baked.”

“I mostly do it when I am upset.”

“Rage bakin’, that’s not a bad idea.”

“There will be enough to share.”

“‘M sure the twins would appreciate it. Bluestreak’s not lookin’ too bad. I figured ya’d be the one to judge if he needs to see a medic.”

“You would likely have more experience than me with sparkling ailments. I do not believe it is anything more than a respiratory infection.”

“I think y’re right. How’s Smokescreen?”

“Worried, resigned, numb. He says he accepts that those mechlings won’t even get a slap on the wrist. He may accept it, but I suspect he will rage at it soon. If the enforcers accept charges against him, I do not know how we will manage.”

“We’ll get a good lawyer,” Jazz declared. “Maybe we outta anyways... Prowl... I got the impression this ain’t his first run in. Or the worst.”

Prowl curled his servos into fists. He gestured for Jazz to sit, and then took the seat across for him. His supper went ignored. A large, simply carved crystal hung over head, casting a warm glow over the table. Jazz had added several crystals like this one throughout Prowl’s habsuite. The light was still not so bright as you would have on the surface, but it was considerably brighter than the lightening anywhere else in the caverns that made up their city. It was brighter than Jazz really cared for but the Praxians deserved to have at least this one space where they were not stumbling around mostly blind. They did well in the dark, those doorwings did their job. But they walked differently in this well lit space. Their doorwings lay lower on their backs, and they moved them with softer gestures. Prowl’s were low on his back, lower than Jazz had ever seen them.

“Their originator is in jail for murdering their progenitor during Syk induced psychosis,” he explained. “It happened right in front of Smokescreen, he was slashed, by accident I believe. Still... Such an ugly scene. For some reason he latch on to me and I stayed with him until SPS took custody of them. I lost track of them after they were settled in the foundling centre. Bluestreak was young, and seemingly unaffected by their unstable, and oft times violent upbringing. A couple expressed interest in adopting him so he was placed in their care as foster procreators. They had no interest in Smokescreen.”

“They didn’t even try ‘n keep’em together?”

“The foundling centres are poorly funded, and generally poorly staffed and poorly funded. Better to get one mechling adopted out, than fuss about keeping siblings together. Smokescreen ran away. He would runaway, and the enforcers would find him and bring him back, and he would runaway again. The last time I do not believe they looked terribly hard for him at all. He had been lured away by an older youngling who worked at procuring younger mechlings for his pimp.”

“No,” Jazz hissed and clenched his jaw. It was what he had feared, and yet still worse.

“He was only a first tier youngling. His interface drive had not yet even initiated. This did not stop any of them. Most of the time he was kept drugged to keep him compliant. Someone got complacent and he escaped. He did not go back to the foundling centre. He lived on the streets, hiding from pimps, and enforcers. He got very good at picking pockets. When he could not steal enough to buy fuel, and could not manage to steal it, he sold himself.”

“Frag. Frag. Frag. It must have put’m right back there when those little slaggers were groping at ‘m.”

“Yes. I am only telling you this because Smokescreen has allowed it. We will utilize it as a defence if the Hall allows charges to be filed against him.”

“Ya caught’m pickpocketing. Ya saved him.”

“I took him back to the foundling centre. To his surprise, Bluestreak was there. His would-be adoptive procreators gave up on him. He did not tolerate being separate from Smokescreen.”

“What happened to the fraggers that pimped ‘m out?”

“I convinced Smokescreen he could get justice. He knew all the hovels they operated out of. My enforcers went in and caught buyers in the act. The pimp attempted to escape out the back. It was my pleasure to put stasis cuffs on him. Thanks in large part to Smokescreen’s testimony, and others, they were all convicted. It was not easy for him. He was threatened. But he sat on the witness stand and told the court what they had done to him, and what he had seen done to other mechlings. He was very brave.”

“Sounds like it. Ya were wit ‘m throughout it.”

“I felt guilty for not keeping tabs on him after his originator went to jail. I felt responsible for the failure of my enforcers to investigate his disappearance. Through court resources I found him a medic, to help him process his trauma. I visited them every mega-cycle after.”

“Ya fell for’em, n applied to adopt ‘em. Then ya gave up yer life so he wouldn’t have worry ‘bout anythin’ happenin’ to ‘m here. He’s still scared. He puts himself between us whene’er he can.”

“He is convinced you will use me as an interface slave. That is why he came after me. He thinks himself used, and tarnished. He did not want it happening to me.”

“Primus. That poor mechling.”

“He fears this is to be the fate of the other younglings.”

“This is a mess. A fraggin’ mess. They shouldn’t be interfacin’, the others I mean. They supposed to be gettin’ to know their match so when they matured their bonds’ll be good ones... I can try ‘n see if everything’s on the up ‘n up.”

“It might help to reassure him some.”

“I can help ya find’m a counsellor here. It ‘d be could for ‘m to get back into counselling. Right?.”

“Yes. I am not returning him to that school. Regardless as to how the deal with those younglings, I do not believe Smokescreen will ever feel safe there.”

“‘M wit ya. I’ll get ya a list o’ all the schools in the neighouring clan caverns. Ya can, or we can interview’em. Are ya thinkin’ o’ homeschoolin’m?”

“For some time, I think. Until he expresses a desire to enrol in a traditional school again. I should not have enrolled him in the first place. I did not consider that it would be different from his former school in Praxus. He was friends with everyone. It did not consider that he would suffer rather than tell me he was being abused.”

“Ya mean everythin’ to ‘m. Longer he’s here, more he’s gonna understand y’re safe, ‘n he ‘n Bluestreak are safe. Ya are safe. I mean...”

“I know. You have given me no cause to worry. Thank you for your patience and assistance. I know are burdensome.”

“Ya really aren’t,” Jazz said quickly. It did not surprise him Prowl felt that way. This was not what Jazz had wanted, to be bonded to a stranger, and responsible for their comfort and safety. But he had made his choice, and really Jazz did not regret it, not really. “Yer mechlings are the twins best friends. It’s not like ya’ve made even one demand.”

“We have fuel and shelter,” Prowl replied. “I have nothing to demand.”

And was that not just the most pitiful thing?


	33. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... Hi. Yah. This continues Culture Shock and has been sitting in pieces in my laptop forever. Have it now. I don't want to look at it anymore XD

There had to be something he could do. Jazz was a villicus, a watchmech, a saboteur. The title was far reaching, and carried a hundred implications on any given mega-cycle. He had his digits in many pots throughout both his shoal and Polihex as a whole by rote of this function. Where Prowl did not, Jazz had a voice, and he was going to use it for the benefit of his sparkmate and step-creations. His progenitor, Rumbler had only just been elected as the next chieftain of their shoal. While he would not take over until the new stellar-cycle, his influence was already growing. Nepotism was something of a societal evil, but Jazz was prepared to make use of it if he could help his new kinsmech. It did not sit well with him leaving Prowl to muddle through his anger alone but he did not think his presence or his reassurances were entirely welcome. Smokescreen at least would probably feel more comfortable without Jazz in his space. The mechling had been through one Pit of a mega-cycle, after one Pit of a harsh life, and Jazz thought better of testing his limits. He returned to his own home, knowing Prowl and his mechlings were just a klik away. If they had any trouble, he was close enough to help.

It felt like his processor was pulled in two direction, but as he returned to his own creations, he focused on them. Jazz helped them finish up with their homework. They did not have a lot of it yet, but he was trying to teach them to take it seriously. If only to spare himself the helmaches he had put his procreators through. He had not taken much of anything seriously, except for athletics and music. Sunstreaker preferred art to everything, including ventilating. Sideswipe preferred recess, and mayhem. They were happy mechlings. Free Wheeler had died when they had only been first tier sparklings. They were second tiers now. Their memories of their originator were the stories Jazz told them. It made his spark hurt. In this moment, sitting at the table with them, he felt split into two warring halves.

He herded them into the washracks and ran them a bath. Once they were clean, he put them to berth after they read a book together. Jazz loved this time with them. Primus, he loved them more than anything. Sometimes he lingered after they had gone to berth. Sometimes he played a little on his electro bass. This dark-cycle he found he could not think of the strings. Though he was restless, he was tired. With no clear direction, Jazz went to his berth and he hoped his path would be clearer after he recharged. Though he was exhausted, Jazz found he could not power down. He stared up at the ceiling. There was not question he was doing Prowl and his foundlings a disservice keeping them segregated. They were second class citizens, not just in Polihex but in the family as well. They were not part of the family. While Jazz had considered this, in part, to their benefit. He was realizing it could not be. At least not in the long term. The way he was keeping Prowl, it was like a wealthy mech might keep a concubine. It was not right. It had had been a decision borne of selfishness, and Jazz could no longer recharge easy with it. It was not a service to Prowl or those mechlings. What about the Twins? How would they feel when they learned the true nature of the relationship between him and Prowl. Sooner or later the would learn. Did he wait for someone to run their vocalizer, or did he tell them himself. They had been good with Prowl, they adored Smokescreen and Bluestreak. How much might that change? Jazz rolled on to his side and covered his helm with a pillow. Maybe if he willed it hard enough his processor would shut up enough so that he could rest.

Rest did come, eventually. Jazz onlined with his alarm and dragged himself out of berth. Even if he felt like he could recharge for joors yet, the twins needed to get ready for school. Except, Jazz did not want to send them. He did not fear for them at their school, fear had nothing to do with this. But he wanted them home. If he was going to flip their world on its axis, they ought to get a mental health cycle out of it. Seeing no need to explain his reasoning, Jazz alerted the school that his creations would be absent. Then, he let them recharge on. It was a peculiarly peaceful start to the cycle. Generally, the light-cycles started with Jazz pouring them each a bowl of Garbage O’s before he got the mechlings up. Always, Sunstreaker’s was in a yellow bowl, and Sideswipe’s in red. They had everything colour coded. It was a practice that he had not taught them but one they had developed themselves. Since it kept the peace between them Jazz did not question it.

“Geni? Shouldn’t we be headin’ to school?” Sideswipe asked as he gingerly walked down the stairs.

“I thought we’d play hookie.”

“Something wrong with grand-ori, grand-genitor or grand-geni?”

“No, Sides, everyone’s good. I just wanted the cycle wit the two o’ ya.”

“Can we visit Blue?” Sunstreaker asked as he descended the stairs, satisfied with what he had been eavesdropping on.

“Maybe we could check in... Gimme a klik.”

There was a message in his inbox from Prowl. Jazz opened it, lips pursed. He had summoned a medic in the dark-cycle, as Bluestreak’s wheezing had worsened. The medic had diagnosed cave cough, and had advised Prowl keep him home for the rest of the week. Poor mechling. It was a common bug amongst sparklings and newlings. The Twins had had it when they had been tiny sparklings. Their self-repairs systems now had the programming to address the contagion. Smokescreen to would be remaining home. He might yet develop the cough, though he was on the older side for it. Even Prowl could get it. They had no natural immunity to Polihexian illness. Jazz frowned at that thought. They would need to discuss vaccination and make sure Bluestreak, Smokescreen and Prowl were not missing anything.

So far as Jazz was concerned Smokescreen needed peace and security, there was no need to rush enrolling him in online schooling or conventional education. Let him spend some time with Prowl, in what was as close as a safe and familiar place as they had. Jazz too would do what he could to show him he was safe. It started this mega-cycle. With the knowledge that Bluestreak only had a case of cave cough, Jazz had no need to keep the Twins segregated. Prowl answered his comm at the first ping. Though Jazz offered to bring breakfast over, Prowl replied that he had breakfast ready, and enough to share. The Twins let out a loud whoop when Jazz declared they could go and see their favourite mechlings. They were just as excited at the prospect of seeing Smokescreen as Bluestreak. Sideswipe exclaimed they were all playing hooky. The prospect just thrilled him. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker ran out the front door with far more enthusiasm that they did when school was their destination. Jostling each other, they raced for Prowl’s door.

Jazz had not realized the familiarity they felt toward’s Prowl’s place until this moment. They did not ring the bell but ran inside. Their progenitor, who had never entered without knocking first, caught the door before it slid shut, and stepped inside. The habsuite smelled like a bakery. There was something oddly warming about it. Sunny and Sides scented the air and looked both intrigued, and ravenous. They found their favourite playmates curled up on the couch, and clamoured up to join them. Smokescreen grinned at Sideswipe as the mechling cackled about playing hooky. The grin disappeared when he saw Jazz watching. He puffed his plating a little, and looked away. Soft music played over the speakers. It was upbeat, and lively. Jazz was fond of the song, and the artist who was performing it.

“Prowl’s in the kitchen?”

“Yeah.”

“A’ight. I’ll check in wit’m. It’s a good album.”

“Yeah.”

One glyph answers were Smokescreen’s norm, at least with Jazz, but the tone was less overtly hostile, and more wary. It was an improvement. He and the youngling might have made headway. That might have been an optimistic thought but Jazz preferred to believe it was true. Jazz wanted to find common ground with him, it was the most direct way of teaching Smokescreen he could be at ease in his presence. The process, unfortunately, could not be rushed. Leaving the mechlings, Jazz went to the kitchen to see what Prowl had accomplished since the evening before. Though he did not find Prowl still in the throws of a baking mania, it did not look like he had been done for long. The dishwasher was running a load, while another was waiting, neatly stacked in the sink. Though Prowl’s frame did not appear especially relaxed, the sharp angles of flared plating had flattened and smoothed. His doorwings were centred on his back. His back was bowed over the table as the whole of his attention was fixed on the datapad in front of him.

There was an empty cube of pressed energon by his servo. If Prowl had not recharged, than he was probably running on that rocket fuel he brewed. It was not the healthiest of copying mechanisms, but it was more productive than pacing or staring at a wall. Jazz watched him for a while, waited for permission to approach. It dawned on him after a klik that Prowl did not seem to realize he was there. Stepping fully into the range of those doorwings, Jazz waited. Prowl still did not respond. His doorwings did not so much as twitch. Was this the real secret to sneaking up on a Praxian? Waiting for him to be distracted? Or was this just a Prowl thing? Feeling intrigued, Jazz walked around the seated mech, and pulled out the chair opposite Prowl. At this, Prowl looked up sharply. Jazz sat.

“Hey,” he said. “Sides ‘n Sunny piled in with Blue ‘n Smokey. I figured I’d see what ya’d been up to. Get any recharge last dark-cycle?”

“No,” Prowl was honest, and it was oddly refreshing. He looked over to the to the kitchen counter. “I have a basket for you and the twins to take home, and another for your procreators.”

“Ya made that much? Not sayin’ they won’t be grateful.”

“I may have gone overboard... It took longer to have an effect.”

“What do ya mean?”

“I bake to calm myself. It was not easy to find calm. Better to bake all dark-cycle than crash and traumatize the mechlings.”

“Ya have crashes?”

“I have a processor glitch. I have difficult processing emotions. I can be easily overwhelmed. If I am, I crash.”

“Ya did a good job keepin’ ya help after what happened at the school.”

“I generally manage”

“Is there anythin’ I can do to help?”

Prowl dropped his helm, and rubbed the back of his neck. He was tense. Tense and exhausted in equal measures. Jazz wondered if he would stay up until the tension faded enough for exhaution to win. That could take mega-cycles. This mech had stood under the calor sun for mega-cycles before bending, and had become ill in the process. Stubbornness and pride in equal measures here? Maybe. He would push himself to collapse for these mechlings, Jazz was certain of it, and he could not help but feel a small rush of fondness. They had something in common. Jazz would go through the Pit ten times over for his twins.

“There is nothing. I have been reading. I hoped to find some clause, some path to justice. There is not any. I feel as though I have failed him.”

“Y’ain’t let’m down, Prowl.”

“He bore it for quartexes to protect me.”

“He loves ya.”

“I did not see it. I should have.”

“He didn’t want ya to see. He loves ya. He don’t want to burden ya. He don’t want ya gettin’ hurt for his sake.”

“He is already far too mature for his age. I want him to be a youngling. He never got to be a sparkling.”

“We’ll help’m get there.”

“We?”

“Lemme make ya another cube before we talk shop.”

Prowl had his energon crystals premixed in a large canister in the pantry. Jazz added a couple of scoops to the press and set it to the strongest brew possibly. As the press worked, he prepared his own mix, not trusting the safety of even a single scoop of Prowl’s particular poison. The Praxian said nothing, but his posture had changed. He was stiffer, his back was straighter, and his optics were fixed on Jazz’s back. Jazz did not teek any fear or alarm, but Prowl’s field was generally neutral, and so the absence of either meant nothing. While Prowl’s cube thickened under a rolling boil, Jazz cleaned the pressed and brewed his own cube. By the time the fuel peculated from the press, Prowl’s poison was ready. It reminded Jazz of tar.

“Thank you,” Prowl said. “You have been watching me press my energon.”

“Seemed like a good thing to know. We are sparkmates.”

“We are,” Prowl’s optics settled on Jazz’s face. “This is what you wish to discuss?”

“I want to discuss the set up we got goin’.”

“The Twins are unhappy?”

“No! Seems like they think o’ yer place as a second home/ They might like it better than home... I know we set it up this way ‘cause I wanted to protect them for... this. ‘M thinkin’ they don’t need protectin’ ‘n maybe Smokey ‘n Blue do.”

“I do not follow.”

“I been keepin’ ya like the chieftain’s used to keep their courtesans. I didn’t make the connection ‘til last dark-cycle. I’ve put ya at a disadvantage.”

“I do not believe that could ever be helped. I am Praxian. They are Praxian.”

“I can try ‘n make it better.”

“You have a plan?”

“I’d like to explain to the mechlings what the peacebond means. I’d like us to start workin’ on bein’ somethin’ o’ a family.”

“You think this will help?”

“Dependin’ on how the Twins ‘n Blue handle it, I’d like to introduce yer creations to my procreators. They might like havin’ grandprocreators.”

“Your procreators would want to claim them?”

“They’re good mechs. They’d be good to your mechlings.”

“I do not know how Smokescreen will feel.”

“We’ll let’m make the choice.”

“Are you certain you want to do this?”

“I want what’s best for the mechlings. Yours and mine. Callin’ their best friends brother don’t seem like a raw deal.”

“I appreciate your willingness to do this.”

“I appreciate yer welcomin’ the Twins into yer home. They didn’t stop to knock.”

“I told them they could come and go as they pleased.”

It pleased Jazz to hear that. The Twins were unlikely to feel perturbed by the knowledge that their friends were their stepbrothers. From the way they felt in Prowl’s home and his presence, Jazz thought they might not mind thinking of him as their step-creator. He was good to them. That was what would matter to them. Jazz thought Smokescreen was bound to have the most reservations. Given the ways he had been abused, trust with him would be a rare and precious gift. Prowl had earned it through devotion and sacrifice. Jazz did not know how he intended to earn it. Time might allow Smokescreen to warm up to him. But more than time and more than patience, Jazz thought it would be his treatment of Prowl that would dictate Smokescreen’s feelings towards him. The youngling loved his adoptive procreator with ever component in his frame.

“We could discuss it with them over breakfast,” Prowl suggested after a thought. “I have chrome-alloy strudels keeping warm in the oven.”

“They ain’t gonna wanna go back to Garbage O’s.”

While Jazz generally had his creations eat breakfast in the kitchen, with Blue and Smokey both feeling worn down, he agreed to Prowl’s suggestion they allow the mechlings to fuel where they were. When they left the kitchen, plates in servo, they found the mechlings piled together on the couch. Smokescreen was at the centre. Jazz wondered if it was a fluke, or deference to his age and size, or if the Twins understood that Smokescreen could benefit from some comfort. He was pinned under the mechlings. Bluestreak was on his lap, and the Twins stretched flopped against his sides, under his arms. They must have been pressing up against his doorwings, but he did not appear unhappy. The album had been replaced with cartoons, and Smokescreen did not appear put out.

“What smells so good?” Sideswipe asked.

“Chrome-alloy strudels. Your breakfast,” Prowl explained.

“Let Smokey, up a bit. Don’t think he can move the way y’re set up.”

“It looks yummy!” Sideswipe grinned, he eagerly took his plate. That mechling had a bottomless fuel tank.

“Prowl made’em,” Jazz explained. “‘N he’s been good to us, sharin’. Hope ya can show yer appreciation.”

“Thanks Prowl!” Sideswipe explained. “Geni’s never made these.”

“I think Prowl’s the baker in the family,” Jazz declared. The Twins and Bluestreak did not flinch at the allusion to family. Smokescreen looked at Jazz, openly wary.

“It looks better than the market’s,” Sunstreaker said.

“Thank you, Sunstreaker.”

They would be thrilled when they saw the basket Prowl had made up for them. Jazz was really going to be hard pressed to get them eating Garbage O’s for breakfast once the baked goods were done. He did not put it past them to beg another basket. Each mechling savoured their strudel, but Sideswipe licked his plate clean of every crumb. Jazz glanced over and Prowl and saw an unfamiliar warmth in his optics. If the Twins even hinted at wanting more goodies, Jazz thought Prowl would make them whatever they asked for. He really was good to them. More than that, Jazz thought Prowl actually cared for them. It was a surprise, only because Jazz had only ever seen the reserved side of the mech. Though through the bond he had witnessed the mech’s greater depths, and not just in those brief nanokliks atop that platform. Sometimes he still did. Their bond had only been meant to be superficial, but when Prowl had pulled away prematurely, Jazz’s spark had held on. Though he only ever felt an impression of the mech’s feelings, nothing concrete, it was more than it should have been. Prowl had not hinted to feeling anything from thebond, where Jazz’s spark craved more. He ignored the tug. It was a consequence, he reasoned, to his possessing a deep, and broken bond. His spark wanted a balm. Even if his processor flinched from the prospect.

“One o’ the reasons I wanted to keep ya home mechlings is I thought we outta have a family meeting.”

“I didn’t do it,” Sideswipe said.

“Whatever he did, I wasn’t there,” Sunstreaker added.

“Okay, now I know ya done somethin’ ya lil terrors... Yer not in trouble, for now, ‘n neither are Blue ‘n Smokey. We... Prowl ‘n me figured it was time we explain what the peacebond scrap means.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be a friendship thing? So Praxus doesn’t try and scrap us again?”

“It’s a bit more than that,” Jazz explained. “A peacebond is a bond representing a promise between our states. Wit it, me ‘n Prowl are sparkbonded.”

“You got _bonded_, bonded?” Sunstreaker asked, his optics brightened. He looked to Jazz, and over to Prowl. “_Bonded_, bonded?

“Why weren’t we there?” Sideswipe asked. He looked and sounded betrayed and Jazz winced. “You got bonded without us.”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on it sweetspark. The shoal chose me, but I said no. The mech they chose to replace me tried to hurt Prowl.”

“Did you save’m?” Sideswipe asked. Jazz caught Smokescreen watching intently. Clearly this was not a story Prowl had shared with his pair of mechlings.

“Prowl saved ‘imself. He was an enforcer, love. He don’t need _me_ to save’m from scrap.”

“You did restrain him after the fact,” Prowl said, softly. “So he was not able to make a second attempt.”

“Did he hurt ya, Prowl?” Sideswipe asked.

“No, Sideswipe,” Prowl replied as Jazz chortled. “He did not hurt me. I did not hurt him either. Except his pride perhaps.”

“And then ya bonded?” Sunstreaker asked.

“Ya learned in class what the peacebond is, right brightsparks?”

“Sorta.”

“Well. It’s a promise o’ peace. If someone hurts their bonded, it hurts our peace. ‘N sweetsparks I want ya to grow up in a peaceful world. That’s what yer origin wanted. ‘N I thought the best way I could help was take the bond.”

“So why did ya take the bond, Prowl?” Sunstreaker asked. “Did the enforcers make ya?”

“He took it for me,” Smokescreen explained, with a little hiss. The guilt was strong. His shuddered and flinched away from the other mechlings. “They wanted me. Because I don’t matter. None of us matter.”

“Come here, Smokescreen,” Prowl said, gently. It was not an order, Jazz realized, but an offer. Smokescreen clamoured of the couch and climbed into Prowl’s lap, and buried his helm in the crook of Prowl’s neck. Whispering a plaintive cry. His doorwings quivered as Prowl gently stroked his back. “You matter.”

“What does he mean?” Sideswipe asked startled by his friend’s outburst. “What does he mean he doesn’t matter?”

“Smokey, ‘n Blue were foundlings, sweetspark,” Jazz said. “So are all the younglings given to Polihex in peacebonds. Many o’em, like Smokey ‘n Blue weren’t treated right.”

“But Prowl’s their ori!” Sideswipe said.

“I was only able to adopt them after I bonded to your progenitor,” Prowl explained. He stroked Smokescreen’s back as the youngling made himself small as he could in his lap. It was pitiful. Jazz wanted to murder ever mech that had ever laid a digit on him. “I told you I have a glitch. I wanted to adopted them very much but my glitch made me unfit to various mechanisms within the adoption process. Smokescreen and Bluestreak were still living in the foundling centre when Smokescreen’s designation was drawn.”

“You didn’t let ‘m go,” Sunstreaker said.

“No. I wanted Smokescreen and Bluestreak to stay together. I made them send me instead.”

“How’d ya make them?” Sunstreaker asked.

“I was Praefectus Vigilum. I had some influence.”

“Wow! You saved Smokey!”

“I didn’t wanted him to,” Smokescreen said bitterly, his face was streaked with angry tears. “I hate that he’s bonded to Jazz.”

“But Geni’s awesome!” Sideswipe protested, his plating flared.

“Take it easy on Smokey, Sides,” Jazz said, gently. “He’s got the right to be unhappy. Prowl sacrificed a lot comin’ here. They all did. We gonna make the best o’ it ‘cause we’re family now.”

The Twins were confused, of course they were. They did not know Smokescreen had been so horribly abused. It was not something Jazz felt any great need to hide from them, but it was not his story to share. Smokescreen felt sullied and worthless. If he preferred not to let the Twins in on his past, than that was his choice and Jazz would respect it. It was a horrific burden for one so young to carry. Jazz wished he could reassure him that he would be safe in Polihex if Jazz had to break some struts to make it so. There were one hundred and two Praxians in Polihex now. Their autonomy over their frames had to be assured, as did their protections under the law. As merely a villicus Jazz did not have the influence to force these changes, but his geni, Rumbler, would soon.

“Don’t you like us, Smokey?” Sideswipe asked.

“Yeah,” Smokescreen said. “I like you. And Sunstreaker. I hate everyone else.”

“But why?”

“They’re horrible,” Smokescreen shuddered as he spoke. “The younglings, the teachers, the enforcers they’re all horrible!”

“Remember I told you that we do not touch a Praxian’s doorwings without permission?” Prowl asked even as he crooned at Smokescreen and tried to sooth him.”

“You said it was a bad touch,” Sideswipe said. “We don’t touch.”

“That is correct. Some younglings did not listen, and hurt Smokescreen with bad touches. Because Polihexians do not have doorwings, the enforcers who came did not understand that it was a bad touch. The enforcers were more concerned with the damage Smokescreen caused when he fought back.”

“No means no!” Sideswipe exclaimed, plating flared with outrage. Sunstreaker shared his stance. “We’re allowed to say no. We’re supposed to go to an enforcer or a teacher and they’re supposed to help!”

“Ya understand better than that enforcer,” Jazz said. “Cleversparks. Smokescreen did the right thing fightin’ back. We’re gonna make sure, me ‘n Prowl, that it don’t happen again. Not to Smokey ‘n not to any o’ the other Praxian younglings.”

Smokescreen relaxed. He did not leave Prowl. Bluestreak, looking a little frazzled climbed into the chair and into Prowl’s lap, alongside his brother. It was a tight fit, but Smokescreen made room. Jazz wondered how much Bluestreak understood of his brother’s experiences, and the trial he had so bravely testified at. If he did not know details, he at least knew his brother was hurting, and that was enough for the sunny sparkling to want to offer comfort himself. Smokescreen gave his brother a hug. Sideswipe slipped off the couch and inched forward, he opened his arms to Smokescreen and waited. A little sheepish, Smokescreen accepted the hug.

“Thanks, Sides.”

“Did you break their olfactory ridges?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Sideswipe was a vicious thing if provoked. Jazz did not need to look far to know where that came from. Prowl looked startled by Sideswipe’s reaction, and Jazz’s tacit approval of it. Polihexians just might have been a little more vicious that Praxians in some regards. Shoal justice reached far. Much was deemed beneath enforcer attention. Jazz thought the only reason the enforcers were paying any attention to Smokescreen’s actions was because he was Praxian, and the little slagtards were Polihexian. If they had all been Polihexian, Jazz did not think it would have resulted in much more than a meeting between procreators, and maybe that was all this would come to. Later, Jazz would go down to the enforcer station and speak with the staff sergeant. Someone would surely have a working logic processor.

“How come Smokey and Blue came too?” Sunstreaker asked. He remained on the couch. He was both less physically demonstrative than his twin, and more cautious.

“I asked for’em,” Jazz replied. “Smokey raced all the way across Praxus to try and stop Prowl from bondin’.”

“I was too late.”

“Maybe ya were just in time. I knew I wouldn’t want to be parted from ya, Sunny. I knew it was hurtin’ Prowl. ‘N I knew it was hurtin’ Smokey so why not bring ‘em all home, right?”

“Yeah,” Sunstreaker said. “If Prowl’s yer sparkmate, Geni, that makes ‘m our step-creator. Right?”

“That’s right, Sunny.”

“And he’s Smokey and Blue’s ori...”

Jazz had thought the youngling had whimpered that glyph when he had buried his face in Prowl’s neck. Foundlings generally gave a diminutive or title to their adoptive caretakers, provided they ever had one. Sometimes it was creator. Sometimes it was origin. Sometimes it was genitor. Sometimes it was something entirely unique. Though Jazz had not heard either mechling call Prowl by that honorific, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker clearly had. Jazz was a bit of an outsider here. His creations had welcomed and were in turn welcomed completely into the Praxians’ little family. He was pleased, rather than offended. They had earned it, and with a little effort Jazz could earn the same.

“So Blue and Smokey are our brothers.”

“That’s right.”

“Smokey, y’er my favourite big brother.”

“Same!” Sideswipe agreed.

“He’s yer only big brother,” Sunstreaker retorted.

“Well, Blue’s my favourite younger brother.”

“Same.”

“Guess that’s sorted,” Jazz said. His creations adored each other. As split-sparked twins they were bound more closely than even fraternal twins like Jazz and Ricochet. They ragged on each other regularly, but if you messed with one of them, they other would put you back into your place.

“What should be we call Prowl?” Sideswipe asked. “He’s not our _ori_.”

“Prowl is fine, Sideswipe,” the mech in question replied.

“Just like Jazz is fine for Blue ‘n Smokey,” Jazz added. “If ya find somethin’ ya’d rather call’m all ya gotta do is ask, a’ight?”

“We should have a party!” Sideswipe said.

“A party?” Jazz laughed. “For what?”

“To celebrate, d’uh! When ya get bonded y’re supposed to have a party with decorations ‘n oil cake!”

“A party, h’uh?”

“Yeah!”

“What do ya think, Prowl?”

“If the mechlings would like a party...”

“And grand-ori ‘n grand-geni ‘n grand-genitor ‘n uncle Ric need to come!”

“Oh dear. We’ll see what we can put together. How ‘bout we just start wit dinner this dark-cycle?”

“Will there be cake, though?” Sideswipe asked.

“There will be cake,” Prowl declared.

Jazz laughed. Just as he had suspected, all his mechlings needed to do was ask for a treat and Prowl was willing to arrange it. It was no wonder Smokescreen and Bluestreak had bonded to strongly to him. He was a generous and devoted caretaker. He was also worn to the struts. There was no way he would complain, and no way he was shoo the mechlings away. Bluestreak was wheezing audibly, worse than he had been just breams earlier breams earlier. It could have been the stress of his brother’s collapse, or just the natural coarse of the infection. Jazz remembered being unable to recharge when the twins had been suffering with this virus. Free Wheeler had only been gone a vorn and Jazz had been terrified that the cough would take his creations too. His procreators, especially his originator, had been the only thing the keep him from breaking down from stress.

“Take your brother, Smokescreen,” Prowl ordered.

The youngling lifted his brother as he stood, and allowed Prowl to stand up from the chair. Jazz followed Prowl into the kitchen. He watched his sparkmate open the pantry and take out several canisters of crushed crystal and ore. Prowl’s doorwings were low, exhaustion or helplessness. With care, but without confidence, he measure out the powdered crystals into a small cube and warmed it on the stove top. Ori had done the same from him and Ricochet. Jazz still drank his origin’s special brew when he felt rundown, so far as he was concerned, it was better than med-grade, at least for this sort of thing. Seeing Prowl making his own brew made him, and the Praxians living kilometres away, more relatable. They were not that different, were they?

“Warmed energon, Ori always made it for us when we were feelin’ rough.”

“My progenitor made it for us. I have his recipe... but the crystals are not the same. I do not know if the substitutions do anything. Or if it helps at all.”

“Tell me what crystals ya need, ‘n I’ll get’em.”

“Praxus doesn’t export them.”

“Someone else might,” Jazz said. “Ya outta take’m upstairs for a nap. Ya could both use it.”

“I need to clean up...”

“I got it. I’ll stay outta Smokescreen’s way. Y’re run off yer peds. Ya gotta recharge.”

“Alright. Alright.”

“Good mech.”

Prowl took the cube off the stove and carried it over to Bluestreak. The mechling drank it as he cuddle with his brother. When he had finished though, Prowl lifted him into his arms and declared they were going to take a nap. The way Bluestreak wrapped his arms around Prowl’s neck told Jazz that the mechling was happy to have this break. Neither of Jazz’s twins protested their favourite playmate’s departure. They knew he was sick, and they were not selfish enough to demand he suffer for their entertainment. Smokescreen said nothing when Prowl told him to see him if he needed anything. Ne only nodded, as he gave Jazz the side optic.

“‘M gonna clean up the kitchen, mechlings,”Jazz declared. “Maybe ya outta make Blue a get well card?”

Sunstreaker perked up at the idea, he dashed of the couch to a corner and returned with a box of supplies. Yes, they felt as free here as they did in their own habsuite. Trusting them not to wreak havoc with pastels and canvas, Jazz gathered the breakfast dishes and retreated to the kitchen. There was not much mess to clean up. Prowl appeared to have cleaned as he baked, hardly a startling observation considering the mech. Though Prowl had struck him early on as an orderly mech, and he had wondered how that would work along side to young and active mechlings, but it had work beautifully so far. Prowl kept his home neat, but it was lived in. Bins filled with the toys and crafts Jazz had ordered filled tubs along the wall. Each tub was labelled with what was meant to be stored inside, the glyphs clearly written in a sparkling’s scrawl. That single observation touch Jazz in unexpected ways. It seemed to him that Prowl might have this parenting business down better than he himself did.

“I should probably help,” Smokescreen said, standing in the doorway.

“If ya want,” Jazz replied. He had not expected this. Smokescreen walked over to the dishwasher and stacked the clean dishes before putting them away. Prowl did not keep the kitchen quite the same as Ricochet had. Ricochet had not been much for cooking, or cleaning. He had spent most of his meals with their procreators.

“I guess I’ll clean ‘n ya can put’em away, since ya know where everythin’ goes.”

“Sure.”

For a nanoklik, Jazz hesitated, then he selected an album from his collection and let it play out from his speakers. It was not the same artist as Smokescreen had been listening to earlier, but it contained similar instrumentals. The mechling did not complain but quietly put away the dishes and Jazz washed and sterilized them. He was a good mechling, and a brave one. Jazz knew his presence made Smokescreen uneasy and yet the youngling had volunteered to help him clean up. It would have been for Prowl’s sake, not Jazz’s, but still it was brave. It was a hint of the mechlings resilience. He would have the chance to thrive, Jazz would ensure whatever path he chose was clear to him. As he put the dishes away, Smokescreen swayed a little, his doorwings twisted and twirled. Dancing, Jazz guessed, in his Praxian way.

“Ya like music, do ya?”

“Yeah.”

“Do ya got a favourite instrument?”

“The cyber-violin, I guess.”

“That’s one o’ my favourites too. I mostly play bass these mega-cycles. Hard to sing playin’ violin. I got one stored, figured I’d save it in case the Twins ever showed interest. Can’t say they have. If ya ever wanted to learn, I’d be happy to teach ya.”

“Really?”

“Really... Why don’t we join the Twins ‘n I’ll get ya started.”

Jazz did not walk around with a violin in his subspace, but he kept a stash of datapads for when he needed them. He sat down with Smokescreen and loaded theory course books onto a datapad. Learning to read music was not actually essential to learning how to play it, but it was a good fundamental. Rather than groan at this homework, Smokescreen perked up. It had not been Jazz’s plan to stick around, he had thought he would take the Twins him, and keep them out of the younglings and Prowl’s way, but as Smokescreen opened the first book, and asked questions, Jazz answered, and he stayed. His mechlings were content in their crafts. Though Sunstreaker was the artist, Sideswipe was not without his creative side. When he turned his helm to see Prowl descending from the upper floor, Jazz finally realized he had spent the last three joors talking music theory with Smokescreen.

“Ya look a bit better,” Jazz said. His finish was dull. It was time for refinishing. Maybe a little pampering. Perhaps in the ornend he would take them to the public paths for a little relaxation. “Blue rechargin’”

“He is. You are helping Smokescreen with coursework?”

“Music theory,” Jazz explained.

“Jazz is going to teach me to play the cyber-violin,” Smokescreen interjected. His doorwings fluttered as he looked his adoptive origin. “That’s okay? Right?”

“Of course. If you wish to learn I have no reason to refuse you,” Prowl replied. Smokescreen beamed.

Jazz felt Prowl’s pleasure at hearing that honorific through their irregular bond. When Prowl had pulled away prematurely, the split had not be so clean as it had been meant to be. Their sparks had held on for microkliks before pulling a part. The bond went deeper that it was meant to be. Though it was not as deep as the bond Jazz had shared with Free Wheeler, the loss of which had come close to killing Jazz, but he had had the Twins to fight for. They suffered terrible bondshock themselves. It was almost all they remembered of their originator now. They had been so small when they had lost Free Wheeler. It was unfair. He had been a devoted origin, but they were too young to remember anything but the pain. Prowl was devoted. Jazz had not been looking for connections or similarities, but this one was evident. He had risked interfacial slavery for the foundlings he had been willing to do anything to adopt. That he had not carried them did not mean Prowl had not earned the title of Origin. There was no question in Jazz’s processor that he had. Neither was there any question in his processor that the three Praxians were anything but a welcome and valued addition to his family. So he had to show it. He had to show the clans they were a united front. He needed his procreators on board.

“Are ya good wit my procreator’s comin’ o’er for dinner,” Jazz asked. “It’s cool if ya’d rather have a quiet dark-cycle.”

“I promised Sideswipe a cake. It would be better if there were more mechanisms to eat it.”

***

There was a chime at the door just as Prowl was adding the final candied crystal to the top of the cake. It was hardly an especial spectacular looking cake. His decorating skills were mediocre, much like his sketching. Simplicity served him well, just uniform deep blue icing, and a mix of gold and ice blue crystals covering the top. Prowl washed his servos and joined Jazz as he went to answer the door. Jazz had taken the gift basket over to his procreators joors earlier, and had extended to them the invitation. Prowl had more than half wished he had shied from the moment Jazz had gone. When he had returned he had explained they had declared to him that they would bring dinner. That at least had been something of a relief. Prowl baked adequately, but he was hardly much of a cook.

While Jazz had been away, Bluestreak had rejoined the other mechlings after his nap. They have covered the dining and living rooms in banners and streamers. Decorations for a celebration. Sideswipe’s declaration that they have a party had taken hold, and Sunstreaker had insisted there had to be decorations. All three sparklings had taken part in their creation. Smokescreen had humoured the sparklings by hanging their creations where they wanted. They were good for him. Not just Bluestreak, but Sideswipe and Sunstreaker too. The sparklings encouraged Smokescreen to play. When he was with them, he did not see quite so wizened before his time. From his perch on the couch, Smokescreen watched the door. Prowl shared his unease, but he did not show it.

“Everythin’s gonna be fine,” Jazz said as Prowl joined him. He had only returned a joor earlier, and he had been helping the mechlings clean up since. “They’re good mechanisms.”

“I am sure they are.”

Jazz opened the door and Prowl stepped to the side. He had met Sprocket before, only in passing at the beach, but they had shared a few glyphs when Prowl had Bluestreak in his care while he had gone to Smokescreen’s school. Nothing he had said or done had given Prowl reason to feel remiss, but he felt all at once so anxious, so wary. Prowl felt overwhelmed. He had no experience to lean on. Family dinners had only ever been him, Barricade and their procreators. They had never met their uncles, their cousins, their grand-creators. Those mechanisms, literal dozens of them, still lived. But no honour or shame Camshaft or Downshift, or Prowl or Barricade had ever incurred had been enough to draw their notice. This indifference no longer troubled Prowl so much as it had. But he knew it bothered Barricade. Crosscut walked the same circles as their originator’s kin. Perhaps that was a part of his reasoning for taking up with Sidesways. It could have been his way of making them notice him. Not that it would serve him any benefit.

“Thank ya for invitin’ us o’er,” Punch declared. He was easy enough to tell apart from his sparkmates, he was not a twin. Jazz’s progenitors were considerably shorter than Punch, who was Jazz’s height. There seemed to be a greater range in heights amongst the Polihexians that Prowl had ever noticed amongst his own frametype.

“Thank you for coming,” Prowl replied. “And for bringing dinner.”

“Thank ya for the basket ya sent wit Jazz,” Sprocket said. “It’s quite the treat. My brother, Rumbler, and our sparkmate, Punch.”

“It is good to meet you all.”

“Grand-ori, Grand-geni, Grand-genitor!” The Twins raced up to greet their grand-procreators with unbridled enthusiasm. Smokescreen and Bluestreak hung back, with Bluestreak shuffling over to his brother. For protection? As protection? “Do ya like our decorations?”

“They’re great, sweetling,” Punch chuckled. “What’cha decorate for?”

“We’re havin’ a party ‘cause Blue ‘n Smokey are our brothers,” Sunstreaker declared.

“And there’s cake!” Sideswipe added.

“Sounds like a good reason for a party,” Sprocket said. Prowl kept his plating flat. The tone was light, but he could not stop himself from looking for the lie in it.

“Smokescreen? Bluestreak?” Prowl called his creations over. If they felt the need to escape, he would support them. But only after a polite introduction. Bluestreak held his brother’s servo as they joined Prowl and the others. “Bluestreak, Smokescreen, you remember Sprocket. Punch, Rumbler, my creations Bluestreak and Smokescreen. Mechlings, these are Jazz’s procreators.”

“Good to see ya again, Smokescreen,” Sprocket extended his servo, and Smokescreen hesitated only a nanoklik before taking it, and shaking the mech’s servo.

“You too,” Smokescreen said. His doorwings were so high. He was so nervous. He shook servos with Rumbler and Punch as well, and he said all the right glyphs. “Nice to meet you.”

“Smokescreen, will you help me set the table?” Prowl asked.

“Sure!” Smokescreen had never agreed to a chore so quickly. Prowl gathered plates as his creation gathered the cutlery. They took their time, Smokescreen following Prowl’s lead. He was clever, and he knew it was for his benefit.

“If you ever feel overwhelmed you may excuse yourself,” Prowl said. “I will not be disappointed.”

“What about you? What if you get overwhelmed.”

“I will excuse myself.”

“Okay,” Smokescreen puffed a vent. “They seem okay. I never had grand-procreators.”

“Neither did I.”

When they entered the dining room, serving trays were already in place. A pretty arrangement of crystals was sitting in the middle of the table. It was a nice touch. He did not know who had brought it, his in-laws, or his sparkmate. When Smokescreen had laid out the cutlery, he gathered the younger mechlings and took them off to wash up. That left Prowl alone with Jazz and his procreators. It was impossible not to feel outnumbered. Better here, than in Jazz’s space. At least in his own home Prowl knew Smokescreen and Bluestreak could make an escape if they wanted. He could make some excuse for himself if he felt like he might crash. Still, his habsuite felt so full, fuller than any home he had ever known had ever been and Prowl did not know if he liked it.

“We brought energon wine to go wit dinner,” Punch said and he showed Prowl the bottle. “I hope it’ll do.”

“I am sure it will be lovely.”

They sat down to dinner, and Prowl felt considerably out of order. It had been a long time since even he and Barricade had sat at a table together. His brother lived across the empire from him. Prowl could never have been Praefectus Vigilum if Barricade had served enforcers in Petrex as well. In this setting, a family dinner, he felt like an actor poorly playing his part. Thank Primus Jazz only had the one brother. Thank goodness he was not here. The table still felt crowded with nine mechanisms sitting around it. Jazz poured Prowl wine as everyone served themselves from the trays Prowl’s procreators had prepared. He was almost tempted to turn his fuel moderation chip off, but Prowl thought it better to keep a clear helm, if only for Smokescreen and Bluestreak’s sake. Both of his creations said please and thank you as applicable, and Prowl was pleased with their manners, especially Smokescreen. The Twins led the conversation, talking about games and school. No. Sideswipe let the conversation, Sunstreaker added his opinions here and there but that mechling was not much of a talker, not even with his grand-procreators. Rumbler asked Bluestreak about his classes, and Bluestreak was happy to tell him every little detail. Bluestreak was indeed a talker, even with his voice hoarse and his intakes raspy with this damned plague.

“Jazz got his old sheet music from our storage,” Sprocket revealed. “He’s gonna teach ya the cyber-violin, Smokescreen?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ya can call me Sprocket. We ain’t formal. Which is how we wound up with Jazz ‘n Ric.”

“Ric’s_ yer_ clone, genitor,” Jazz replied. “Except his got Geni’s faceplates.”

“He is,” Punch agreed. “From the temper to the paint.”

“We’re still trying to figure out where Jazz came from,” Rumbler said. “Stopped asking who he looks more like ages ago. Jazz is Jazz.”

“I look most like Ric, which means I look most like Genitor. I just got my own twist. We always regretted he got the gold face ‘cause we couldn’t trick the teachers by switchin’ places.”

“Ya would have too,” Punch said. “I understand you have a brother, Prowl.”

“Yes. Barricade. He is newly bonded to the creation of Ambassador Crosscut.”

“Hopefully the creation isn’t too much like the ‘creator,” Sprocket said.

“Perhaps worse. I have not met him. Barricade will hold his own against either of them. He is formidable.”

“What of your procreators?” Punch asked. “The rest of your family.

“My originator died in a training accident. Bondshock took my progenitor within joors. We did not have an extended family, none that would count us. Our procreators broke bonds and contracts to be together. Barricade and I were disowned before we ever emerged.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Punch replied. It was likely a lie. A polite one, but Prowl nodded his helm. Better that Prowl did not explain that the training accident had been military, and that his procreators had served as intelligence officers in the Praxian army. Punch took a long intake and looked over to the Twins. “We spent orns wonderin’ if bondshock would take Jazz.”

“I was with my progenitor when he faded. He apologized he could not stay, but he could not imagine seeing the next sunrise without my originator. I tried to get Barricade to come to the medicentre. He would not. He did not believe our progenitor would just... fade. None of their kin came to the funeral. Even death did not end their estrangement.”

“It was the Twins,” Jazz said, with a small shrug. “He wouldn’t’ve forgiven me if I’d left ‘em.”

Dinner proved to be more pleasant than Prowl would have thought. Bluestreak’s vents wheezed a little, but they were improved from what they had been. Prowl had tried to replicate the cure all his progenitor had taught him, but if this concoction he had made served any use it was probably as a placebo. Jazz’s procreators were kind, cautious and kind. Smokescreen did not offer up much but he answered if they asked a question. It was Sprocket who asked how Prowl and the mechlings had met, but it was Smokescreen who answered. He told them about how Prowl had stopped mid speech to arrest him for pickpocketing, but had taken him back to the youngling centre he had runaway from, and not to jail. He described being reunited with Bluestreak who had refused to be adopted without him, and he told them how SPS had resisted adopting them out to Prowl for no good reason at all. His doorwings were hitched up so high, and spread so wide, anyone cold see how indignant he was about the ordeal.

“I have a glitch,” Prowl explained, unashamed of the truth. “It has proven to be a convenient excuse for many to interfere throughout my life.”

“I got some experience wit that,” Punch replied. “If ya find it’s troublin’ ya more than it should, lemme know and I’ll see if Ratchet’s in the area. He runs a free clinic in the Dead End. But he venture’s underground when he gets sick o’ the heat.”

“Ratchet’s just about the best medic in Cybertron,” Jazz declared.

“Thank you. I will remember that. It has not proven too troubly in recent vorns.”

Sideswipe just about leapt from his chair when Prowl brought out the cake. Prowl was pleased and flattered by the mechling’s enthusiasm. It was a simple recipe with inoffensive flavours. Jazz poured more energon wine as Prowl served the cake. He ensured the mechlings’ pieces all had a little candied crystal on top. Sunstreaker called it pretty, before he took a bite. Sideswipe squealed with glee and immediately devoured his serving. His own creations were less extreme in their responses, they had enjoyed his cakes before. Bluestreak crawled into his lap and ate his slice while curled up in Prowl’s arms. His wheezing had worsened again. Knowing what it was made it terrify Prowl less but he hated knowing how Bluestreak was suffering. He forgot his own dessert, focused entirely on his sparkling.

“I have a tisane that could help his ventilations,” Punch said. “Family’s been makin’ the same one for generations. I could make’m up some if ya’d like.”

“I would appreciate it,” Prowl said. “I have my progenitor’s recipes but many of the crystals are not available.”

“If ya don’t mind, I’ll take a look at yer pantry. If I need anythin’ else, we’re only around the corner.”

“Please.”

While Punch worked on the tisane, everyone else remained at the table. After some pleading from the Twins, Jazz allowed them each a second slice. If there was a great positive that had come from bonding to Jazz, apart from finally gaining custody of Bluestreak and Smokescreen, it was the Twins. They were mischievous little imps, and Prowl adored them. He was not at all unhappy to call them his step-creations, although he urged himself restraint. The fact that Free Wheeler had died did not diminish his place in their lives. Prowl did not want to overstep with them, but he adored them all the same. A large, lively family had long been his most private dream. It had almost come true, in an odd and unconventional way.

There was a tug in his spark, a wish he could carry just once. Just once. It was unlikely to ever happen. His relationship with their progenitor was considerably more uncertain, and uneasy. Prowl liked Jazz. His sparkmate treated him and his creations well. They were fortunate for that much. All the same, Prowl worried he would grow weary of this arrangement. He might yet regret giving himself in a loveless and lifeless bond. But there was Smokescreen, Prowl could never regret sparing him this fate. While their family’s, their creations had taken the first step towards becoming one unit, he and Jazz were something akin to business associates. This should have been a relief to Prowl, and yet it was not. He had concluded when he had still been quite young that he was unlikely to ever bond. Prowl had given up hope of falling so completely in love as his procreators had, and he had not thought he would bond if he could not have a bond like theirs. This bond he shared with Jazz was strange, it was almost like an itch in his spark, and it created a longing he could not place. It was none of the things he had imagined. There was no hopefully future laid out for him to claim. There would be no newlings...

“Here ya are, sweetling,” Punch said and he gave the small cube to the mechling. “It’s the same energon my ori made me, and his before him.”

“Thank you,” Bluestreak wheezed.

“I appreciate this,” Prowl said. “The medic said it was a minor virus but it sounds terrible.”

“Just about every mechlin’ gets it down here,” Punch said. “Only ever once. Used to hear talk o’em workin’ on a vaccine but ain’t heard anythin’ for a long time.”

No doubt because of the war, and before that the pollution that had decimated their society. Their medics and scientists would have been too busy trying to find ways to treat the victims of the violence and toxins. There would have been no time to work on a vaccine for a mild sparklinghood illness. Hopefully there would be time now. Prowl hoped for not only his own sake, that there would now be time. If Praxus returned to old ways and bad habits, Prowl and his creations were in the direct line of fire, and not only from the Praxian industrial or war machines. Perhaps the Praxian mechlings would be spared any aggression, but it seemed unlikely that they would see Prowl as innocent.

“I’ll take the mechlings upstairs to play,” Smokescreen declared. “That way Blue can rest in his berth.”

“That is an excellent idea, Smokescreen,” Prowl said.

He nuzzled Bluestreak, and took his empty cube from him, and the mechling slid from his lap and joined his brother... and step brothers as they made their way upstairs. It would not be long before Smokescreen bristled at being lumped in with the sparklings, but Prowl thought he had hand his fill of company. He had managed it well. Jazz’s procreators had been patient and unobtrusive. Overall, dinner had gone better than he might have hoped. Jazz suggested they take their energon wine to the living room, and Prowl agreed. The bonded trio took the couch, Prowl claimed his usual chair, and Jazz took the ottoman.

“That mechling woulda died here wit’out ya,” Sprocket shook his helm with disgust, as everyone got settled. “He would’ve curled up and died. I won’t forget the sound he made when ya told’m ya’d bonded to Jazz.”

“He has suffered a great deal for the choices of grown mechs,” Prowl explained. He needed these mechanisms to be his, their allies, so the truth was a good weapon. “His procreators were drug abusers. During a bad trip, his originator killed his progenitor and injured him. Bluestreak was barely first tier and was outwardly unscathed. The centre adopted him out quickly, separating the brothers. Smokescreen was distraught without him. He became a victim of youngling trafficking as a first tier youngling.”

“That pour mechlin’,” Rumbler hissed as he vented. “How could they separate’em? That’s a horrible thing to do to two vulnerable bitlets.”

“There are so many foundlings in the centres, they adopt out any they can. It usually requires breaking up families.”

“So many foundlings?” Jazz asked.

“Bondshock is especially lethal amongst Praxians, at least those with deep bonds. Even a single vehicle accident commonly claims at least two victims.”

“Slag,” Jazz said. “So the ones we got. Does it help the rest.”

“Not really. There approximately 500,000 mechlings in Praxus’ foster care system. Some have been removed from unhealthy home environments. More are orphans with little hope of every becoming part of a family again. The numbers have been surging for vorns. For the obvious reason.”

“That many?”

“Many are siblings. Praxians traditionally have large families. If one procreator dies and the other follows, there are suddenly anywhere from five to ten new orphans entering an already overclocked system, unless by some mercy there are kin capable of taking them all in. Rarely are siblings kept together, even if kin are adopting the orphans. It is usually only a few of them, leaving the rest in government care.”

“‘M sorry for that,” Sprocket said. “I’m not sorry for lives I took defendin’ my home, but ‘m sorry for all those poor mechlings. Ya did a noble thing, takin’ these two into yer spark, ‘n a nobler thing sacrificing yer future for ‘em.”

“I would not let him be trafficked again. When his designation was announced, I knew I would go in his stead.”

“They didn’t want to draw another designation?” Punch asked.

“I did not present that as an option,” Prowl replied. “I did not, and do not support hostage bonding as a means of a peace treaty. I am opposed to using younglings as living shields. I could never have asked another youngling be offered up so Smokescreen could remain. I had to go. It had to be me.”

“I honour ya, Prowl,” Jazz said, softly.

“Aye,” his procreators added their agreement as they briefly bowed their helms to him. Prowl flinched, embarrassed by the display

“I did nothing remarkable,” he said, more stiltedly than he cared to admit.

“The mechlin’ whose designation was never called would say different if he knew,” Punch replied. “We’d be honoured if ya’d let us call ya kin.”

“I would be honoured in turn.”

“Jazz’s alma mater is just across the river,” Rumber said. Of the sparkmates, he had said the least. Prowl knew he was being measured and he did not yet know if he had come up wanting or not. “They got a good arts program, why we ended up sendin’m there instead o’ the ole school.”

“The old school?” Prowl asked, a feeling of dread bloomed in his spark.

“Cave in destroyed Obsidian’s predecessor five vorns back,” Rumbler explained. “We carve out a new cavern. No one could imagine rebuiltin’ there.”

“School was in attendance?”

“Yeah.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Wasn’t by yer servo so I, we won’t hold it against ya,” Rumbler replied. “We had to make peace wit that when they settled on peacebonds.”

“Thank you,” Prowl grieved. One hundred vorns of war had brought too many atrocities, intended and unintended, but this made his spark hurt. The procreators of those innocent mechlings, the sparkmates and kin of the educators and staff, how could they live with the sight of him? Of Bluestreak and Smokescreen?

“The families move away,” Jazz said. Did he know what Prowl was feeling? The bond was not meant to be so deep but time and again Prowl felt a hint, and he wondered. “Into the see, where they can see the sea above their helms, ‘n not rock. “We talked, we all talked long and hard before the treaty was signed. The Praxian mechlings won’t be hurt. They mean too much.”

“They are foundlings without notable kin to complain of their loss.”

“They’re healthy...” Punch said. Jazz looked at his originator, shoulders up. Uneasy? Prowl braced himself for the truth Punch was about to share. “The poison that choked our sea ‘n rivers poisoned a lot o’ our frames. Some we lost, like Free Wheeler, some came through, but there’s been a cost. Many Polihexians can’t hope to ever even spark, let alone carry.”

“I see,” Prowl said. It was grim. It was painfully grim and he grieved again. Not only for the foundlings were meant to be broadcarriers, but for the countless Polihexians who had been render sterile by Praxian poisons. Jazz had not touched him. Did that mean he had been spared? Would the burden of procreation be passed onto Bluestreak and Smokescreen in his stead?

“They’ll be taken care o’,” Rumbler assured him, but Prowl felt the overwhelming urge to scream. He set his jaw to keep it back.

“Please allow me to brew some energon,” Prowl said.

He did not wait for a reply, and made his escape into the kitchen. Prowl pressed his helm and fists against the pantry. His helm throbbed as his spark screamed and he bit his lip to keep from screaming. He was too hot, much too hot, and he flared his vents and sucked in air as his joints tensed. Claws tug into his palms, but the pricks of pain were buried under the storm within his processor. Even as he sank to his knees, Prowl fought the whirlwind, and the building crash. But he was overwhelmed. They had known. The state had known. They must have known because before Prowl had been escorted to the beach his contraceptive implant had been removed by the Praxian medic as part of his general physical. Praxus had willingly and knowingly given those foundlings over to interfacial slavery. No one had warned him. They would have known he would not be silent. As his battle computer spat out thousands of increasingly horrifying scenarios, all the terribly ways the innocent younglings would be used. What happened if they could not conceive? What happened to them then? The state did not care. That was why they had sent foundlings. They were complicit to all that would come now. He had served the state. He had not found hard enough against the peacebonds. He was complicit. Prowl screamed in his own processor. Stop! Stop! But it did not stop. It would not stop.

“Primus y’re burnin’ up!” Jazz voice breached the storm. Prowl helm lulled back as he was pulled into a cool frame. A cold clothe fell over his brow. Against his back he felt the steady pulse of a familiar spark, and at this proximity his flaring spark abruptly slowed to match the pulse. He went limp, and sighed with relief as the storm quieted, just enough. Again, Jazz’s voice breached the din. “Can ya online y’re optics, Prowl?”

“Mm,” Prowl moaned an affirmative, and forced his optics online. At least it was not unbearably bright.

“Can ya talk to me, Prowl?”

It was hard. Prowl’s optics dimmed again as he tried to work his vocalizer. The storm inside his processor was slowing, yet tightening around his emotional cortex, choking him. A raspy sob broke from his vocalizer. How did he save them when peace was more valuable that their dignity? How did he save them? He could not save them. Smokescreen. Bluestreak. They would not be broadcarriers. Prowl would save then. How did he save them? Was his voice enough? It had never been enough? Would Jazz listen? Jazz had not told him. Jazz had known. What did Jazz plan for him? His intakes whined.

“Come on, Prowl. Online yer optics. Look at me. Help’s comin’.”

Prowl brightened his optics and tried to process what Jazz was saying. Help was coming. Help. What help? Why? Help. He was on the floor of the kitchen. He was laying in Jazz’s arms. At his back he felt the spark of his mate pulse. His pulsed at the exact same rate. The juxtaposition between his processor and his spark was disorienting, and Prowl stared up at Jazz, and tried to make order of his thoughts. As he muddled through the jumbled slog of his processor a blue servo appeared and he saw and Jazz’s lipplate move. His processor caught up with his optics an nanoklik after and he processed that he heard the glyph spoken. The cold clothe on his helm was replaced with a new one. Prowl sighed.

“There ya go. Back wit us, Prowl?”

“Yes?” Prowl’s sluggish processed questioned where he could have gone. Into himself, Prowl answered his own question as his processor cleared a little more. He had gotten stuck in between in a loop rather than crashing and resetting. The cold compress was soothing, but his helm absolutely throbbed. Prowl wanted to dim his optics but did not. Jazz wanted him to keep his optics online. His spark kept time with Jazz’s, and almost as if by force, the anxiety and fear choking his processor slowly bled away with each steady pulse.

“Good. Ratchet’ll be here in any klik. Y’re gonna be fine.”

“I am fine.”

“Ya were unresponsive for half a joor, Prowl. We’ll let Ratchet decide.”

“I was crashing but I did not crash.”

“What’s the difference.”

“A hard reset,” Prowl told himself he should sit up out of Jazz’s arms but he was tired, brutally tired.

“Ratchet’s here!” Sprocket’s voice, or at least the pronouncement made Prowl cringe. It was humiliating.

“No one’s judgin’ ya, Prowl,” Jazz assured him. “We’re just worried bout ya.”

The mech crouching by his peds moved. Rumbler, Prowl saw a nanoklik later, as the mech stepped out of the way, and a towering, dour faced mech stepped into the kitchen. Iaconian. Medic Ratchet was not Polihexian but Iaconian.

“Changes since Punch came to get me?”

“He’s alert, mostly. He’s finally coolin’. I just changed the compress again.”

“Prowl?” The medic knelt over him as he spoke, his scanners tingled over Prowl’s plating, and then deeper. He hated the feeling. “Punch thought you were havin’ an episode with your glitch. Do you think that’s right?”

“I did not reset. But I was in a loop.”

“I’d like to take a look at your internal diagnostics. Open your port for me.”

Prowl turned his helm and exposed the port at the base of his helm to the medic. He dimmed his optics. He did not want to see if Jazz’s procreators were watching. Bad enough to be cradled, bad enough to have glitched at all. It made him feel so inferior when someone walked in on one of his episodes. They were his shame. Prowl much preferred to manage them unmolested. The medic’s mental presence brushed against his and Prowl dropped his firewalls. Ratchet was not in his memory banks, he could not see his thoughts, and he did not probe in their direction but rather focused on the diagnostics he wanted to access. When he had downloaded what he wanted, Ratchet retreated from Prowl’s mind. It was a relief to have him gone.

“You burnt through a bit of wiring, and there’s a small short. It could have been worse, if Jazz hadn’t done his part to keep your temperature down. It looks like your battle computer remained active while the rest of your processes reset. Has that happened before?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Prowl replied. That could explain why he felt so muddled.

“I’d like to insert a code into your battle computer to stop that from happening again. When your processor resets it’s an act of self-preservation to prevent damaging overheating, as I imagine you know. You could face serious damage if this happened again, and you remained in a loop until something important shorted.”

“Please proceed.”

Th medic’s mental presence returned and this time he accessed Prowl’s battle computer and the system code that operated it. It was unnerving. This component had been prodded so many times. His code had been hacked and slashed with edit replacing edit to the point Prowl questioned if any of his code had been left unedited. Ratchet found the edits. In his processor, Prowl heard the medic curse. Rather than just insert his string of code and go, the medic went over Prowl’s code line by line and corrected, or removed edit after edit. While it was nerving to simply lay placidly as the medic worked, it was in a way a relief. Prowl had neither the confidence nor the skill to do what the medic was so expertly doing. There was vindication in knowing that he had not been wrong, that he had been over edited. When Ratchet left his processor again, this code installed and his edits made, he left a pain patch behind.

“No one could agree with just how to handle you, hmm?” Ratchet asked.

“My glitch seemed to fascinate every medic I ever encountered.”

“I found the loophole that let your battle computer keep running rampant. There was a flaw in the edit. I removed it completely. It prioritized your battle computer over your core systems and that is not at all sane, and if you give me the designation of the medic, I’d like to knock his helm with one of my wrenches.”

“I would not know which one. There were many medics after I entered adulthood. My procreators largely kept me away from medics after my diagnosis was confirmed. When I moved away for school I was suddenly being transported to the medicentre after every crash. If they did not perform surgery, they edited my code. I became well practised at finding closets and empty rooms to crash in to avoid any witnesses.”

“I understand why ya were scared when I said Ratchet was comin’,” Jazz said. Prowl wanted to deny that he had felt any fear but with this proximity, and the bond, there was no use denying it.”

“Did they operate on you without your consent?”

“Every time. I never consented. I know it is needless and painful. I know my glitch cannot be cured, only managed.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Prowl,” Ratchet said. Anger simmered in his field, but it did not disturb Prowl. It was more vindication that he was not merely stubborn. “It won’t happen under my watch.”

Prowl liked this medic, which was unexpected because he was not inclined to like members of his function. As Prowl remained reclined against Jazz’s chassis, Ratchet plied him with coolant and med-grade. Because of that past edit, Prowl had been stuck in the loop for a half joor, and in an exception to the norm, overheating had done damage within his processor. It was nothing so serious his self-repair systems, boosted by med-grade, could not repair. His helmache would linger a few mega-cycles, even a full orn, but Prowl was not unfamiliar to living with helmaches. Ratchet plied him with another cube of coolant, and gave orders he increase his intake. Prowl already consumed more coolant than the average mech of his size. The medics order would see him drinking twice as much coolant. Jazz spoke before Prowl could question the need. His sparkmate assured the medic that Prowl would have the coolant available to him.

“Would if Ratchet checked our bond?” Jazz asked.

“Does it feel irregular?” Ratchet asked.

“It’s different. Things didn’t quite end right.”

“I pulled away.”

“His youngling called for’m. Ain’t his fault.”

“Smokescreen!” Prowl sat upright. “Does he know? He is terrified when I crash.”

“Easy,” Jazz said, a servo on his back, safely away from his doorwings. “Ori checked on’em ‘n their all in recharge. Blue’s snuggled up wit Smokey in his berth, and the Twins are in his. Bet they’ve been after a ‘charge o’er for orns.”

“Good,” Prowl could not help but sigh. Let Smokescreen recharged peacefully. It was gratifying to know the Twins felt as comfortable as they did with him. His spark pulsed a little faster, no longer under Jazz’s spell. Unresolved stress flaring up again. His processor was too out of focus to clamp it down. If it even could have been possible. “They are welcome, whenever. So long as they have your permission.”

“I know. ‘N I honour ya for it.”

That declaration again. It meant something significant to the Polihexian that did not translate to his Praxian experience. Prowl did not understand how being welcoming to Jazz’s creations was worthy of honour. As he saw it, it was the barest minimum a step-creator could do. In any case, Prowl was selfish. He wanted to love them, he wanted his love to be welcome. So he would keep his door open to them, and show them they were welcome and wanted. Prowl would keep his optics on that line. He would take care not to overstep lest he push them away, or anger their progenitor. The truth of Polihex’s motives for the peacebond hung over his helm. Jazz would not use him as a broadcarrier, regardless what the state wanted. With a clearer processor Prowl knew this with utter certainty. It was not a shame, not at all, but Prowl felt a little longing all the same. He reminded himself that he had creations, this bond was not so empty, and he was happy with his adoptive creations, but there was still a longing. It had always been there. But it was no stronger now that he was bonded than it had ever been. Now was not the time he would want to create, and not with this mech, not as things currently stood.

“I’ll take a look at both your sparks,” Ratchet declared as he retrieved the correct instruments. “Sometimes bonds can be one sided, causing an imbalance and some discomfort. If there’s something amiss, we’ll talk about what we can do to fix it.”

For the second time, Prowl bared his spark. Sitting next to Jazz now, the proximity was still almost too much. It felt like his spark was going to reach out of his chamber. Vorns of training kept Prowl sitting straight and upright, unflinching. It was not as if he actually wanted to merge with his sparkmate. It had been rather unpleasant knowing how much the experience had pained Jazz. Prowl was already a source of burden, and surely some pain, he did not want to actually know it so intimately. Ratchet was silent when he examined them, and it made Prowl’s plating crawl with foreboding. For Jazz’s sake, he hoped it was alright. But if Jazz had asked they be examined, then it must have been troubling him, or perhaps it was really just having a bond at all was uncomfortable. Prowl did not know which scenario he should hope for more. The medic set his equipment aside and Prowl had his answer before he could come to any satisfying conclusion.

“You only meant for it to be in the convection zone,” Ratchet said.

“That’s right,” Jazz replied. “Got into the radiative, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. And it’s solid bond. I don’t foresee it fading back into the convection zone.”

“I was figurin’ that.”

“I am sorry, Jazz,” Prowl said, feeling horrendous guilt.

“Ya didn’t do it, Prowl. It was me, or my spark.”

Regardless of what Jazz said, Prowl blamed himself. He realized he would have done nothing different, could not have, but that did not assuage the guilt. Jazz was suffering for the bond, and Prowl did not need to be told there were limited ways to resolve this. A medic could surgically reduce the bond but there were risks, and there would be pain. Given Jazz had suffered bondshock once already, it might be too great a risk to even consider. That only left completing the bond in the radiative zone. Prowl did not want that, for both their sakes.

“The bond might be irregular, but it is stable,” Ratchet declared. “You may yet get used to it.”

“As long as it’s stable,” Jazz said. “‘M good.”

“If anything changes, you know the drill. I’ll leave med-grade on the counter for you, Prowl. I want you drinking a cube a mega-cycle until you run out. Even after the helmache fades.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll be around for a quartex or two making my rounds. Jazz, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Medic Ratchet,” Prowl said.

“Think ya can stand, Prowl?” Jazz asked. “Ya could use a solid recharge, ‘m thinkin’.”

“I am alright.”

He was hyper aware of Jazz’s proximity, or at least of his spark. Prowl would have risen on his own but he found his peds faster, and when he offered Prowl his servo, it would have been petulant to refuse the help. With the painblocker at work, the edges of Prowl’s processor were fuzzy but he was stable on his peds. Jazz’s servo was low on his back, just the very tips of his digits and he guided Prowl from the kitchen. Immediately Prowl froze as he saw Jazz’s procreators sitting in the living room, waiting. What had they been waiting for? Had they been listening? He dropped his helm, feeling the old familiar rise of embarrassment when he was forced to face witnesses to his episodes. Prowl was not ashamed of his defect, not really, but the disdain, the dismissal and the pity he had so often received in response to his crashes from those outside his small family still served to make him feel inferior every time. Pedsteps signalled a mech’s approach, a servo under his chin gently forced his helm up and he looked into Punch’s optics.

“N’er bow yer helm,” he said. His conviction reminded Prowl of Camshaft, his originator. “When y’re up to it, we’ll talk again. For now get yerself to yer berth.”

“I’ll see ya in the mid-cycle, Ori,” Jazz said. “We’ve got from here.”

They said their goodbyes and Prowl was relieved. He realized they had waited out of worry and it was a little baffling. Prowl did not expect them to care about him, or for him. Surely they did not believe Jazz would want him for a broadcarrier, they would know their creation better than that. Having witness him after losing his true sparkmate, they would not be so callous to Jazz. Even if their concern for him stemmed only in their concern for their creation, Prowl appreciated it. He only hoped they would not hold his glitch against him, and that they would not treat him like a defective piece of machinery, or a bit of delicate crystal, too fragile to do more than sit on a shelf.

“Y’re really a’ight?”

“Would Ratchet have left if I was not?”

“Ya know yer frame better than ‘m.”

“I am fine. I have never had an episode like that. I always reset when I get stuck in a loop.”

“Whichever medic played wit yer code like that coulda killed ya. Scared the fraggin’ Pit outta me.”

“I am sorry...”

“Don’t apologize. Primus Prowl, it wasn’t yer fault. If anythin’ it’s mine. I didn’t wanna think ‘bout why “we” wanted the peacebond, so I didn’t question how much ya knew. ‘M sorry for that, I outta been straight wit ya.”

“I understand even better why you refused the bond in the beginning. They expect you to create with me.”

“When Free Wheeler died, he was carryin’. The Twins were gonna have a pair o’ lil brothers. Everythin’ seemed fine at first. He was ‘bout halfway through when he just collapsed. Commed Ratchet. By the klik his spark got weaker ‘n weaker. Then he was gone. They were gone. The only thing the Twins really remember o’m was the pain of the bond breakin’. ‘N it makes me so mad.”

“They thought you would want to replace them through me?”

“They called it restitution.”

“That is an insult to your grief.”

“Somehow I knew ya’d get it,” Jazz sighed. He ran his servo over his helm. “Ya just ‘bout gave me a spark attack when ya collapsed. It was geni’s idea to use compresses, like wit a fever. We changed ‘m ever coupla kliks. Genitor was tryin’ to comm Ratchet but cavern’s can be funny if ya ain’t in the right spot. Lots o’ dead zones so ori went to find Ratchet ‘mself. I tried to lay ya down, but yer spark went crazy. Only thing that kept it stable was keepin’ ya close.”

“I could hear you,” Prowl replied. There bond was not deep enough to kill if either of them died. Jazz might have been afraid of the pain of another broken bond, but Prowl did not believe that this was the case. Prowl though Jazz had been afraid for him. “Off and on. I was disoriented. I could feel my spark synchronize with yours even though my processor was in chaos. I do not know if I could have broken out of the loop without you there.”

“‘M glad I was there. I didn’t wanna get Smokey. Ya mentioned they were afraid o’ yer crashes. I didn’t want to put the stress on ‘m. He’s just a bitty.”

“I appreciate that, sincerely. They have witness me crash. It was horrifying for all three of us, and it was a rather minor crash comparatively speaking. That loop? He might have thought I was dying. I want to protect him, all of them from my glitch as best I can. I hate frightening them.”

“They know what to do if it happens?”

“I told them that I would be alright, and that I would come around on my own. But for their comfort I told them they should call EMS.”

“Even though ya knew how it would go, how it always went,” Jazz said, and he gave Prowl a soft smile as he nudged him towards the states. “Gettin’ prodded at and fragged wit by medics that can leave frag alone. Cause just askin’ for’em to wait for ya to come ‘round’s too much to ask of mechlings. Y’re a good origin.”

“Oh,” Prowl barely stopped his vocalizer from quivering. “Thank you.”

“Ya can tell to call me.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Get some rest. E’eryone’s gonna be confused when they online tomorrow. I’ll ‘charge on yer couch, if ya don’t mind, to take care o’ the Twins.”

“If that is what you wish. I do not imagine it will make a comfortable berth.”

“I’ve had worse.”


	34. Wisdom

The couch was actually quite comfortable. His ‘genitor was good with his servos. Furniture schematics had been sent ahead of the peacebonded younglings so that they would have comfortable berths when they began their new lives in Polihex. Jazz had not intended to take the bond, and had not prepared anything at all for Prowl, let alone the mechlings. Thankfully there had been extra time as they had waited for Crosscut to get slag done and for Bluestreak to be transported to the beach. Sprocket had returned to their cavern as Jazz had waited with Prowl and Smokescreen on the beach, and by the time they had arrived in what had once with Ricochet’s habsuite, Sprocket had build the couch, the chairs and even the berths to the specifications the Praxians had sent. Jazz hoped they were really comfortable for the Praxians, Prowl was unlikely to complain. But Smokescreen would be honest, if Jazz asked correctly. The habsuite was quiet. With his audial horns trained, Jazz could have heard even the softest hiccup. But everyone in the floor above was recharging. If Prowl had a recurrence, Jazz thought he would know, his spark would tell him. It would wake him. This should not have been possible but there bond was not the shallow thing it had been meant to be. And perhaps this dark-cycle Jazz would look at it as a blessing. Tossing the blanket Bluestreak had been using over his side, Jazz recharged.

By default Jazz was not an early riser, but procreatorhood had trained him to wake before his imps did. Above him, the habsuite remained quiet. He hoped Prowl recharged a little longer. Between the previous restless dark-cycle and then the quasi crash, the Praxian needed a long rest. Jazz found muffins in the fuel storage unit and put them in the oven on a tray to slowly warm. As they did, he prepared himself a cube of pressed energon. He sat at Prowl’s table, and drank his energon, Jazz wondered how long it would be before they started nagging him to get on creating more bitties. Vorns he hoped. Decavorns. Perhaps they would keep their mouths shut, given he had taken in the two mechlings when he took on Prowl. They probably felt Smokescreen and Bluestreak were quite the boon. If they did not grumble about the lack of bitlets, they might get right on suggesting matches of the mechlings. Prowl would never allow it, Jazz did not need to ask. And for his part, Jazz would never dignify a single match with anything but a rude glyph. After everything Smokescreen had been through, who he bonded to, if he ever bonded at all, would be Smokey’s choice, and his alone.

Jazz rubbed his chassis with the palm of his servo. The bond did not hurt but it felt fragging weird. Maybe it would have regardless how shallow it always would have. It felt like having a corner of an energon goodie, but craving the whole piece. If Prowl’s spark had been repulsive on some level, maybe it would have been different but from what little he had reached, there was a depth to the mech, and a strength, and Jazz caught himself _wanting_ to feel and to know. Jazz did not like it, and he did not _want_ it. But maybe he did, just a little.

He did not know how he had not woken the mechlings when he had screamed for help. One nanoklik Prowl had been on his knees, braced against the pantry, the next nanoklik he had been falling, he had fallen into Jazz’s arms. In that moment Jazz had relived the agonizing breams where he had held Free Wheeler and begged him over and over to live. His glossa had not worked the last dark-cycle. It had not been in him beg. Jazz had screamed for his procreators, but he had not begged Prowl, or Primus for mercy. He had not dared consider for a nanoklik that Prowl would not come around. Jazz shuddered at the memory of his helplessness. Trapped in flashback and a new waking memory purge, Jazz had been useless. But Geni had known what to do, how to protect Prowl from processor damage. The only mercy had been feeling the strength of Prowl’s spark pulse under his servo, and through the bond. Each time Prowl’s optics had brightened a little, and each time they had dimmed had been torture. When Jazz had tried to lay Prowl down, to chase down Ratchet himself, Prowl’s spark had raced so quickly, and so suddenly, Jazz had had immediately scooped him back up. Even after Prowl had regained consciousness Jazz had been afraid to let him go.

“Where’s Prowl?!” Jazz turned his helm with a jerk. Preoccupied with his thoughts, the youngling had caught him off guard. Smokescreen was trembling. It looked like he might fall to pieces, or rip out Jazz’s throat. It only took half a nanoklik for Jazz to understand his panic.

“Rechargin’ in his berth, ‘m hopin’,” Jazz replied. He kept his tone light, and none threatening. He did not dismiss thousand horrorible fears that would be racing through Smokey’s processor right now. “He had a bit of a hiccup wit that glitch o’ his. Medic came ‘round ‘n he’s fine. I recharged on the couch. Kept my audials open. Just in case.”

“The couch.”

“Yeah, Smokey. I ‘charged on the couch. It’s a good piece o’ work. My genitor built it.”

“He’s okay?” Smokescreen asked, and his plating clattered as he shuddered.

“Come on, sit down, Smokey. Prowl’s fine. Just fine. I promise.”

“Okay.”

The youngling dropped into the chair opposite Jazz. The trembling worsened, but Smokescreen did not make a sound. He rubbed at his optics, viciously wiping away the tears that fell in spite of his efforts. Jazz churred, he could not help it. As much as he felt the urge to take Smokescreen into his arms, and to console him, Jazz knew that they had not gotten there yet. Such a gesture was more likely to send the mechling into a panic attack than to give him any comfort. Jazz did not know what to say to reassure Smokescreen, and he was not certain glyphs from him would have any affect. But he could not sit by and pretend Smokescreen distress did not trouble him. Jazz got up from his chair and went to the pantry.

“Lemme make ya some fuel. Somethin’ to warm ya up.”

“It isn’t even cold out.”

“Sometimes it’s our insides that need some warmin’,” Jazz declared.

Prowl kept the pantry orderly. Everything had a place, and it was late out in a way that made perfect, and logical sense. He found the sapphire with the other baking ingredients, along quartz for a kick, and rhodochrosite, the crystal commonly used to sweeten energon goodies. In a small pot he heated the mixture, mixing it constantly. When the mid-grade had turned a deep blue with flecks of pink, Jazz poured it into a cube and topped it with a couple of fluffy energon goodies he had found amongst the baking materials. The fluff slowly melted into the goodied energon. It was steaming when he set it down in front of Smokescreen.

“You make goodied energon from scratch?”

“Best way to make it.”

“Mm,” Smokescreen took a sip. “It’s good... Thanks Jazz.”

“Anytime, Smokey.”

“I was scared he was going to be gone.”

“If somethin’ e’er happens, if I think for a nanoklik Prowl wouldn’t pull through, I’ll get ya. I won’t rob ya o’ the chance to say goodbye.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. ‘N I promise ya, if somethin’ e’er happens to ‘m, ya got a home here. But ‘m gonna do everythin’ in my power to make sure Prowl is safe ‘n healthy.”

“I need him.”

“I know, sweetspark. He ain’t gonna go anywhere.”

There was a whine from Smokescreen’s vents. Jazz turned his helm and saw Prowl. From the cant of his doorwings, Jazz knew the mech was distressed but they drooped as his optics settled on Smokescreen. The youngling leapt to his peds and lunged at Prowl, gripping him in a crushing hug. Prowl’s vent made a short puff of surprise, and he stumbled back a step. But he kept his peds, and he returned Smokescreen’s hug and chittered in a low tenor. The hum his systems made almost sounded like a purr. As Prowl reassured his creation with his presence alone, Jazz rose to prepare Prowl’s preferred poison. It only took a moment’s distraction for Jazz to feel the bond in full, and he realized Prowl was not only reassuring Smokescreen, but also himself.

“I was worried you might have run off,” Prowl said, as he stroke Smokescreen’s helm. Right. Smokescreen had run from the foundling centre more than once. He had fallen prey to the traffickers one such time. Praxus was not the only state with that particular scourge slinking about.

“I won’t,” Smokescreen promised. “I won’t. I was scared you were gone. Jazz said you had an episode?”

“I am alright. Jazz took good care of me, as did his procreators. The Medic Ratchet believes he sorted out the particular fault that caused it last dark-cycle.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Those bureaucrats had been fools to try and keep these mechanisms apart. They were kin, as closely bonded an origin and a creation could hope to be. Jazz could not help but think the worst of the Praxian government. Learning what he had through Prowl’s and the mechlings stories only gave him that much worse of an impression of Polihex’s decavorns long enemy. It was hard to envision quite how Prowl had fit into it. He had been Praefectus Vigilum, more than just a cog in the Praxian machine, and yet they had put serious effort into slowing, perhaps hoping ultimately to block Prowl’s adoption attempts. Why? Was his glitch really that much of a black mark against him? Had their been other reasons? Was there more to Prowl, more to his career? Had Smokescreen’s designation been drawn at random? Or had he been chosen as a means to spite Prowl?

“Hope ya don’t mind I got some o’ yer muffins warmin’ for breakfast,” Jazz said once he thought both origin and creation were comfortably at ease.

“No. No, I do not mind,” Prowl replied. “They are meant to be eaten. Have you fuelled already, Smokescreen?”

“Jazz made me goodied energon.”

“Thank you Jazz.”

“Got y’re cube o’ poison ready, Prowl. Why don’t ya sit wit us, Smokey?”

“Okay,” Smokescreen reclaimed his seat, and Prowl sat to the side of him. In a surprising first, Smokescreen was not putting himself between Jazz and his originator. Jazz was almost giddy to have earned even this little bit of trust. It may have been indulgent, or over indulgent but Jazz reheated the goodied energon he had left over and refilled Smokescreen’s mug.

“Y’re a bit lean,” he said by way of excuse. Smokescreen smiled, and took the treat with a youthful flutter of his doorwings. Jazz saw Prowl look at him, the edges of the Praxian’s optics were soft. They glowed a soft, and light blue. At least his sparkmate was willing to forgive him spoiling the youngling a little.

“I can’t help it,” Smokescreen said. “It doesn’t matter how much I fuel, I don’t put on any reserves, or insulation.”

“‘Genitor is gonna take that as a challenge.”

Both mechlings were slender reeds. Bluestreak had only a little of the roundness sparklings were known for. Why had he not noticed before? Probably because he had avoided them. Prowl’s armour covered much of his protoform, but what Jazz could see seemed solid. He had a strong, powerful frame. Ratchet had not noted anything. Had it been worse before? Or was this just the nature of their frametype? Jazz pictured Crosscut in his HUD and remember only a pompous, and over polished politician. When he picture Prowl then, he tried to look past the polish and the paint, and see. Prowl looked to him to have a little bit of excess insulation, and redundant wiring, not a shortage like the mechlings. Yet there was a dullness to his protoform that was just not quite right. Jazz wanted Ratchet back, as soon as he could pull him away from his rounds, to give the Praxians a full examination. They would not rust away on his watch.

“He’s gonna wanna put mass on ya for sure,” Jazz said. “Ya gave the best fuel to Bluestreak.”

“Fuel shortages are a problem in Praxus,” Prowl explained, voice soft, he looked down at himself. Ashamed for his extraneous mass? “Less in the capital than in the outer reaches of the empire. Rationing is uneven. The elite get more than their share.”

“Prowl gave his rations to his precinct,” Smokescreen revealed. Prowl looked wearily to his creation. “He fuelled on slag. Worse slag than the centre gave us.”

“I clearly have not gone without,” his adoptive originator replied. Was that contempt Jazz hard heard. The youngling scowled and flicked his doorwings.

“It was slag. You wouldn’t give it to us. You said it didn’t have the nutrients for our frames needed to be healthy. How could it have been healthy for you?”

“We got fuel to go ‘round,” Jazz promised. “Good fuel. When Ratchet’s done his ‘round, Prowl, we could have’m o’er to give the mechlings physicals. It’s probably been a long time since they had a full health check.”

“As long as Prowl has to have one too,” Smokescreen’s optics glittered with cunning. “I’m game.”

“I think he’s got ya beat.”

“He does.” Prowl sounded thoroughly resigned.

The clatter and patter of sparklings racing down the stairs ended their conversation. Jazz had imagined Praxus as an oppressive, industrial machine with tendrils reaching into his sea, and stripping it to fill their coffers ever fuller. He had not imagined the Praxians, all this time, had been starving. It explained why the fishermech had continued to go out to sea, despite the hostilities. They had not been arrogant, Jazz realized now. They had been desperate when they had followed the warwhales and cyber-fish into Polihexian seas after the poison of their factories had made their own seas barren. None of it had been inevitable, none of it need have happened. Those factories only needed to be shut down, everything that had come in the last one hundred vorns could so easily have been avoided. But the elite, like the owners of those factories, had not suffered for their greed and arrogance. They had not starved, like their workers, like those fishermechs, like the foundlings. He dearly hoped the mechanisms of Praxus made them pay for their gluttony.

“Geni!” Sideswipe barrelled into the kitchen. “Ya let us ‘charge o’er.”

“Didn’t make much sensin’ wakin’ ya up just to put ya in yer berths,” Jazz replied.

“What’s that, Smokey?” Bluestreak asked with a yawn. His doorwings swung back and forth. The mechling was completely content. His intakes sounded so much better.

“Goodied energon, Jazz made it,” Smokescreen said.

“Oooh,” Bluestreak gasped. “Can I have some too?”

“Course ya can,” Jazz said, and he ruffled the mechlings helm. “I bet the Sides ‘n Sunny want some too.”

“Uh huh!” Sunstreaker nodded quickly. His twin jumped up and down with glee.

The little table in the kitchen could hardly fit them all, and yet the mechlings crowded in. The Twins climbed into the one free chair together, and Bluestreak climbed into Prowl’s lap. Jazz went back to the pantry to make a bigger batch of the Twins’ favourite treat as his creations, and Prowl’s chattered up a storm. Their creations, Jazz supposed. That had been the point, in part, and explaining the situation to the mechlings, and of bringing his procreators in. For the long term security and comfort of everyone, “they” needed to become “us”. He would not mind more light-cycles like this. As the energon mixture simmered, Jazz put another cube on for Prowl. At least from what experience Jazz had had around Prowl in the light-cycle, the mech drank at least two cubes of that tar before mid-cycle. Jazz wondered how heavily Prowl had depended on this slag for energy back in Praxus. As he had faced the shortages, and felt the need to take care of his subordinates. The crystals he used were bottom of the barrel nutrient wise. They offered a quick burst of energy, nothing else. Ratchet was going to have a field ‘cycle with Prowl.

“Would ya mind gettin’ the muffins out, Smokey?” Jazz asked.

“Sure, no problem,” the youngling replied.

There was no insolence to it. Smokescreen used ovenmitts to get the muffins out of the oven, and put one on a plate for each of them. From somewhere in the cupboard, he pulled out a yellow, a red, a black and a blue plate. Just like at home, the Twins had their colour coded plates, and the Praxians had joined in on the tradition. Prowl had quietly, and without Jazz’s interference, done what he needed to make the Twins feel completely at home in his space. It did not seem so hard the fathom, in this moment, that they could all make a happy life, under one roof. How they could accomplish that... Jazz did not want to raise the possibility. Neither of their habsuites were big enough to fit them all comfortably. While their habsuites had been carved from the same rock wall, and in theory could be merged, that would rob Ricochet of the ability to return home, something that remained a possibility. The idea of moving from this familiar nook made Jazz feel sour. They were close to his procreators, the mechanisms he had needed to lean on time and again over these last vorns. There was nothing close to big enough, that was not already a much loved home, that could house them. So did they carry on this way? If they did long enough, would the shoal, would the counsel of chieftains begin to grumble?

“A’ight, goodied energon for each o’ ya. ‘N pressed energon for Prowl.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said.

You could see the history of deprivation in the way the mechlings fuelled. Smokescreen and Bluestreak both leaned over their plates and cubes, and fuelled quickly, though they savoured a bite here and there, before they rejoined the conversation. Without the latent fear of their fuel being taken, the Twins sassed each other and complained about having to go to school in between bites of fuel. Bluestreak would be off until the beginning of the next school orn, standard protocol for cave cough. At least his wheezing had improved by more than just a single bound. Jazz had not considered that the indomitable empire could have been flagging so badly. They had never gotten a hint, but then Jazz realized they had never really been able to really get a look beyond the coast.

“Ya should be grateful that y’re healthy, sweetsparks,” Jazz admonished them. “If it’s a’ight wit Prowl ya can come o’er after school. Me ‘n yer grand-ori got a meetin’.”

“I would be happy to watch them for you,” Prowl said. Jazz was inclined to believe he meant it, and was not just saying so to be polite. “If you would like I can have dinner for you for whenever you are finished.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

As Jazz wrangled the Twins to take them off to school, Prowl cleared the table. It was a singularly domestic scene and Jazz did not know quite how to feel. The ease with which had slipped into this slot with Prowl felt disloyal. He felt like it should have been more of a struggle. None of this should have felt so natural, yet it was. Jazz felt disloyal. While he fully believed Free Wheeler would have approved, would have taken the peacebond with none of the hesitation Jazz had felt, it should not have been this comfortable. Prowl made it easy, Jazz realized. Cautious, and careful Prowl had not taken a step out of the invisible line. There was a hint of a subversive streak in the Praxian in the way he had quietly, and even secretly built a warm relationship with the Twins, all under Jazz’s olfactory ridge. This streak did not irritate Jazz, it only made the mech more likeable to him. Considering he would be bonded to Prowl for the remainder of his life, it was better to like him than to loath him. But it should not have been so easy, a voice in his helm said. It was too, too easy.

“I can get Geni or Genitor to pick up the Twins ‘n bring ‘em o’er,” Jazz said as he triple checked that he had everything his creations needed for their school-cycle.

“I can pick them up,” Prowl replied. “Smokescreen can keep an optic on Bluestreak for a half joor. Can you not, Smokescreen?”

“Not a problem,” the youngling declared. He had moved on to the couch. The datapad with the music theory books on it was on his knees. Jazz was inordinately pleased.

“A’ight. I’ll see ya ‘round dinner time. Don’t make the mechlings wait for me. I don’t mind reheatin’ my fuel. I ne’er know how these things are gonna run.”

“Understood.”

The Twins were less remiss about heading off to school knowing that they would get to play with their favourite mechlings after school. In fact, the novelty of having Prowl collect them at school seemed to have caught Sideswipe’s imagination.

“Can we have breakfast wit’em every ‘cycle?” Sideswipe asked.

“Prowl ruined ya for Garbage O’s, h’uh?” Jazz asked.

“Strudels, ‘n muffins, ‘n mmm,” the mechling sighed with contentment.

“The way to yer spark is definitely through yer fuel tank, Sides,” Jazz chuckled.

“If yer bonded to Prowl, why don’t we live together?” Sunstreaker asked. “Armorhide’s ‘n Lightspeed’s procreators got bonded ‘n they all live together.

“Would ya like to live together, Sunny?”

“Aren’t we supposed to?”

“In a normal bondin’, yeah,” Jazz replied. “We got ourselves a lil different situation is all, ‘n we’re figurin’ it all out as we go. Would ya like to all live together, under one roof?”

“If we’re a real family, we’re ‘sposed to. Right?”

“Maybe that’s somethin’ we can work towards. We don’t got enough space right now.”

“Armorhide’s ‘n Lightspeed’s procreators are havin’ a bitty,” Sideswipe said. “Are Prowl ‘n ya gonna have a bitty?”

“I don’t think so,” Jazz said. “At least not any time soon. We’re just gettin’ to know each other, sweetspark.”

“Do ya like Prowl?” Sideswipe asked.

“I do. I think he’s a good mech. Do ya like him Sides? Sunny?”

“Yeah,” Sideswipe said. “‘N I like Smokey ‘n Blue.”

“I like ‘m,” Sunstreaker replied. “‘M glad y’re bonded to ‘m. ‘M glad we’re family.”

“‘M glad y’re happy.”

That was higher praise that Jazz would have dared hope. He could not claim to be happy to be bonded to Prowl, though he was not unhappy. Jazz thought the best way to describe his feelings was “at peace”. If his creations were happy than he had less cause to resist the ease with which this “family” of theirs was coming together. Prowl had not just made it easy on him, but on them. Considering how reserved Sunstreaker was by nature, Jazz wondered how Prowl had won him over. But then, Prowl was reserved as well. They could have come together naturally, just as Jazz was finding himself naturally slipping into a domestic partnership, of sorts, with the mech. Prowl had won over Sunstreaker so easily, Jazz could not quite process it.

“A’ight mechlings, behave yerselves,” Jazz ordered. “I’ll be back before we gotta worry ‘bout gettin’ ya to berth.”

“We could always charge o’er again,” Sideswipe said with audible hope.

“If ‘m away too late. But I don’t plan to be.”

Jazz would have to talk with Prowl about the idea of moving into a habsuite together. His creations were raring to live alongside their step-brothers and step-creator, Jazz doubted Smokescreen would be feeling even a flicker of this same enthusiasm. The problem, of course, would not be with the Twins, but Jazz. Smokescreen was more traumatized than he was really troubled. Nothing Jazz did or said in one mega-cycle could ever hope to get him at ease with his presence. Even if Smokescreen decided next-cycle that Jazz was safe, any suggestion that they combine households was bound to be met with mistrust, and even fear. Not so much fear for himself as fear for Prowl. Those fears could be met. They could be discussed and worked through, and Smokescreen could break free of them with the support of _their _family. But the fight would be bitter and ugly if Smokescreen got it into his helm Jazz would be taking Prowl into his berth.

Frag. Yes, that would be ugly. Given how young Smokescreen had been when he had been trafficked, given how fragged up his early home life had been the youngling might believe that interface was a selfish evil. Jazz was not the mech to convince him differently. That was Prowl. For all Jazz knew, they had already had that very conversation, possibly even more than once. But the Smokescreen’s scars were fresh, and even if he grasped the concept of interfacing for mutual pleasure on an intellectual level, he knew from experience that it could be selfish, and cruel and evil, and he was not going to trust that Jazz would not hurt Prowl. He was unlikely to trust that Jazz was not interested in even sharing a berth with Prowl, even in the platonic sense.

Jazz could not promise that he and Prowl would be celibate forever either. They were bonded. That is was a passionless bond ultimately did not matter. Infidelity was a grave offence in his culture. Not punished by law, so much by community, Jazz would not shame Prowl in this way. So if he ever wanted to interface again, it would have to be with Prowl. Considering Prowl had not be bonded, and had been trying to adopt versus creating with another, the mech might have concluded he preferred celibacy to interface. Jazz suspected that if he asked for it, Prowl would lay back and stare at the ceiling regardless what he actually wanted. The thought was a little sickening. That was another conversation they would need to have, when Jazz was brave enough to voice it.

With the Twins safely dropped off, Jazz made his way to his next destination, and it was not the shoal hall. Prowl had taken no comfort in the fact that the enforcers had not come to his habsuite to announce charges against Smokescreen, and for his part, Jazz felt no relief either. In fact, his hackles were rising. It felt to him like the abuse Smokescreen had suffered from those scraplets was being brushed under a rug. If the enforcers did abstain from filing charges against Smokescreen, Jazz thought they would expect gratitude, or relief. Except the price paid to see those charges never materialize would be denying Smokescreen justice. In the last mega-cycle Jazz had been thinking, and he had been planning his line of attack. In the end he could not make the enforcers file charges, but by Primus he was going to apply some pressure.

“Is Enforcer Checkpoint around?” Jazz asked the mech working the front desk.

“Is he expectin’ ya?” The enforcer asked.

“Probably. Tell’m Villicus Jazz is waitin’.”

Jazz waited. He should have told Prowl he was doing this, if not Smokescreen. But the decision to remain silent had been made with some thought. If he let them down, if he could not get the enforcers to find some common sense, then they would not know to be let down. If it all worked out, then justice was done, and Smokescreen could keep his fragile faith in justice. Prowl would be relieved, Jazz figured, for Smokescreen’s sake, and for the sake of every other Praxian bonded to Polihexian. Jazz understood why his sparkmate had spent the dark-cycle studying Polihex’s Codex Juris. It was not only Smokescreen he was worrying for, but for all the younglings, for Bluestreak, for himself. He had every right worry that injustices against them would simply fall through the great gaps in the Codex. They did not have to, Smokescreen did not have to fall through any gaps. All it called for was a little creative thinking, and a little common sense.

“Villicus Jazz,” Enforcer Checkpoint came out to the lobby. “I wasn’t expectin’ ya.”

“I wanted to talk ‘bout Smokey’s case. See where ya were at.”

“Come wit me. Let’s see if one o’ the conference rooms is empty.”

“Appreciate ya takin’ the time.”

“Mm.”

No doubt the enforcer was annoyed with the interruption. No doubt he had work more pressing to him than a schoolyard scrap. Jazz would forgive him that. He was also a mech with the big picture in his processor. They just were not looking at the same picture. Yet. Jazz followed Checkpoint deeper into the precinct, though he did not need the enforcer to be his guide. His antics as a youngling had seen him within these walls a few times. The work of the villicus tended to be passed down, and they had a code onto themselves. Sometimes it clashed with that of the more civilized enforcers. Polihex was a collection of shoals which were collections of allied clans, led by a warlord elected by the counsel of chieftains. The Codex Juris was a new invention, millenia versus millions of vorns old, the enforcers had come with it. Prior to that, justice had been decided by the clans, and between the shoals. Energon debts, and duels had not be uncommon. Though this “justice” had been outlawed with the advent of the Codex Juris, duels and debts were still commonplace. Jazz believed in the Codex more than most might have expected. A single law for all, it was noble, and it was right. Depending on how reasonable Checkpoint was, Jazz would be tempted to demand restitution from the procreators of those scraplets, and meet out some justice with his own fists. Prowl would not approve.

“They want it to go away,” Checkpoint said after he ushered Jazz into the first available conference room. “The other mechlings’ procreators thought better of pushing for charges after the school sided with Smokescreen and expelled the lot. They ain’t happy, but they settled on stewin’.”

“Hope y’ain’t too disappoint that this don’t sit right wit me,” Jazz replied. “The scraplets are gettin’ off free ‘n clear. Bein’ expelled ain’t much o’ a punishment to younglings.”

“What would ya rather, Jazz?”

“Touchin’ someone’s leg ain’t illegal. Gropin’ it is. Why is it different for his doors?”

“It’s an interestin’ analogy. But we can’t say if they were gropin’ or just roughin’m up.”

“Smokescreen said they were feelin’m up. Gropin’, pawin’. They weren’t tryin’ to hurt’m. So obviously they had somethin’ else in mind.”

“What do ya think they have in mind, Jazz?”

“There are stories all o’er. On the datanet, in print, all ‘bout bringin’ Praxians to heel wit those doors. Plenty o’ porn playin’ it up.”

“Ya think the mechlings got the idea from porn.”

“I do.”

“Their procreators ain’t the only ones wantin’ this case file closed. Staff sergeant’s got no interest turnin’ this into an interface crime investigation.”

“Do ya want it on yer helm that ya let’em brush this off, then a vorns from now they try somethin’ like this again, or worse? Or someone else decides since they go away wit it, they can too?”

“I don’t know what y’re expectin’ me to do here.”

“Talk to their classmates. Slaggers probably talked to someone. It was a fraggin’ game. Someone knows what they were after.”

“Staff sergeant wants this wrapped up.”

“Then I’ll talk to ‘m. Smokey deserves better than this scrap.”

“Y’re welcome to talk wit Kick-off. As it stands, my servos are tied. This ain’t the worst result ya coulda had, Jazz. No tellin’ what a justice or jury would o’ ton wit yer mechlin’, regardless o’ the provocation. He’s Praxian, Jazz. Scales here aren’t in his favour.”

“They wouldn’t’ve gotten their servos on ‘m,” Jazz replied. “Not over my dead fraggin’ frame.”

Kick-off. Well, if that was not just perfect. As a villicus Jazz had been involved in the havoc that had been launched against the Praxian prison ship that had help Kick-off, and many other Polihexians prisoner. The conditions had been horrific, and the physical and mental torture inflict beyond the scope of many a mechanism’s imagination. It was not a surprise that Kick-off had not returned to his band of warriors. That he had enlisted in the enforcers, and had climbed the ranks spoke highly of his sense of duty, and his strength of spark. This was all to be admired. Normally Jazz would have had nothing but admiration for the mech, but his disdain for Praxians was well known. His protest against the peacebond had been louder than Jazz’s own, but it came from a different place. He had been disgusted with the idea of Praxians living amongst good Polihexian mech, and of Praxian code diluting the sparklines. Jazz did not even begrudge him this, did not even entirely disagree. But if Kick-off’s bias against Praxian was going to block a proper investigation, Jazz was not going to play nice.

“Is the staff sergeant in his office?” Jazz asked the first enforcer he saw.

“Yes?”

“Great!”

He did not wait to be invited it, that would have left Kick-Off the opportunity to brush him off. Jazz knocked once, and opened the door. Had it been locked, he would have had to wait, but it slid aside with the softest of hissed. Kick-Off looked up as Jazz stepped into his domain. The outraged scowl morphed into a look of recognition. Given the state he had been in, it was almost a wonder that Kick-Off remembered the faceplates of the villicus who had cut his mangled frame down from the prison-ship’s wall. The scowl returned. Kick-off may well not have appreciated the reminder Jazz’s mere presence would have meant. As it morphed into outrage Jazz realized he needed to dispel the mech’s misconception, and quick.

“I suppose ya know why ‘m here.”

“The Praxian younglin’ is yer whelp. I don’t like ya comin’ here, thinkin’ ya can throw yer weight around. We’re not chargin’ the mechlin’ ‘cause they’re ain’t a case. Not ‘cause o’ ya.”

“I appreciate that. Smokey had e’ery right to defend ‘mself,” Jazz replied. “I wanna know why three younglings are gettin’ away wit molestin’ a classmate.

“There’s no evidence they knew what they were doin’ meant to a Praxian,” Kick-Off replied. Jazz had to admire the enforcer. Whatever hate he had for Praxians, he was professional enough to at least try to look to and to follow the law he was enforcing. They needed more mechs like him, not only in Polihex but in Praxus as well if this fragile peace would hold.

“I don’t think that’s true. Oh ‘m sure they claimed ignorance, but I don’t buy it. Smokescreen called it pawin’, gropin. If they were just tryin’ to hurt’m, why not hit or pinch? Plenty o’ porn out there focused on doorwings. Easy for a youngling to find.”

“So how would you prove if, Villicus Jazz?”

“Let Checkpoint talk to their classmates. If it was anythin’ but petty harassment, someone will know.”

“‘M a lil surprised yer peacebond didn’t come here ‘n try ‘n talk enforcer to enforcer.”

“I imagine he don’t think any o’ ya would listen to ‘m, if only outta principle.”

“Hmmf,” Kick-Off grumbled, but he did not disagree. Prowl would never have even gotten past the threshold to Kick-Off’s office. If he had tried anything like Jazz’s stunt, he would have been arrested. Or shot. “Y’re invested in that mechlin’.”

“‘M invested in my family. ‘M invested in peace,” Jazz declared. He held out a datapad to the enforcer. “Take a look at this datapad. It’s a trial summary from Praxus.”

“Mechlin’ traffickin’,” Kick-Off sneered after he flipped through a few pages. “Sick stuff. Wish I could say it wasn’t a problem here. But we know that ain’t true... But that’s mostly for ya villicii to deal wit.”

“Somethings won’t change too quick. We can be an energon-thirsty lot, Polihexians as a whole.”

“The star witness ain’t identified... Juveniles ain’t usually... Yer whelp, I suppose.”

“He was twenty-three vorns old when those slagsuckers got their servos on ‘m,” Jazz replied, feeling a deep hatred for these monsters he would never meet. It was fortunate for those mechanisms that they were in prison in Praxus. If they had been within his reach, they would have dead. “His life had already been rough. He had no reason to believe anyone care what happened to ’m, since time ‘n again mechanisms showed ‘m how little he mattered. My sparkmate by peacebond saved ‘m more than just twice o’er. Prowl put cuffs on those sparklin’ traffickers. He reunited Smokey wit his brother. He gave’m his voice ‘n the courage to testify against those monsters, despite death threats comin' down thick 'n heavy. Now Prowl’s scarcely recharged since findin’ out what those little scraplets were doin’ to Smokey because he don’t have the power to give’m justice this time. All but made ‘mself sick studyin’ the Codex front ‘n back, tryin’ to find some way to make ya _look_. Don’t think helplessness suits Prowl, but how can he feel anythin’ but helpless when his younglin’ cries that he don’t matter?”

“Ever consider his history coulda had ‘m misinterpretin’ what was happenin’?” Kick-Off asked.

“No. ‘N I don’t think for a nanoklik Smokey’s makin’ scrap up, or over-reactin’. If anythin’ he under reacted. He put up with it for quartexes because he didn’t wanna give Prowl trouble. ‘Cause he was afraid what _I _would do. Makes me sick knowin’ he suffered ‘cause he thought I’d hurt his adoptive origin.”

“Ya made yer point. Checkpoint will interview their friends. But if nothin’ comes of it, than it is done.”

“That’s fair. I appreciate ya takin’ the time to talk wit me.”

“Not like ya gave me a choice. That mechlin’ should be seein’ a counsellor. He must o’ been seein’ someone in Praxus.”

“Don’t suppose ya got any recommendations?”

“Happens I do. Here’s the clinic’s comm id. Don’t know if Rung works wit mechlings but he’d probably have a rec for ya who’d do holo-appointments like’m.”

“Much appreciated.”

***

Prowl had never thought he would spend so much time in the kitchen. He had never bothered cooking until he had bullied and badgered the centre to allow Smokescreen and Bluestreak to spend ordends at his habsuite. It had not been a matter of rationing, if he had wanted good crystals and fuels he could have claimed a generous portion as a government official, more than he had even dispersed amongst his enforcers. His procreators had tried to teach him to cook when he had been a youngling. The lessons had never taken in his processor. Had the impulse to try ever flit into his helm, Prowl would never had acted on it. He had seen through his work on the street the hunger of his framekin, and the idea of stealing fuel from their hunger-pang frames to feed his indulgences was anathema to him. They had been, they still were, so haggard and so desperate.

The war might have been over, but the Praxians were still starving, this was unlikely to change anytime soon, Though had never ventured too far east, Prowl knew it had been worse along the coast than it had been in the capital. The rumours of cannibalism whisper in the alleys of Praxus had not been mere rumour to him. He had seen the image captures his colleagues from the border had shared. Life in Praxus had become a living memory purge for so many of its citizens. Prowl could only wonder what the true death toll might be. Records had been so carefully buried. Unfortunately, with no function to occupy his battle computer, Prowl spent far too much time thinking about those image captures.

“Your baking again,” Smokescreen said as he leaned against the doorway.

“I thought you might all enjoy malachite chip cookies when the Twins come after school,” Prowl replied. There was no need for more goodies, he had certainly made so much already. He felt guilty for the excess, and yet he needed to escape his thoughts for just a few kliks.

“You don’t look angry.”

“I am not.”

“So why are you baking?”

“Sometimes I just want to bake.”

“Do you miss Praxus?”

“Aspects of it. Perhaps less than I should. I have you and Bluestreak. Jazz is a better mech than I might have expected, and the Twins are charming miscreants.”

“Do you miss your brother.”

“I hardly saw Barricade, Smokescreen. We were never especially close, not like you and Bluestreak. We only became more distant after our procreators died.”

“You miss something.”

“You are a perceptive youngling,” Prowl declared. He put the tray of unbaked cookies in the fridge to cool before they baked, and turned to his creation. “I miss my function. Or perhaps merely holding a function at all. I was not forged for idleness.”

“I guess I need to get into more trouble to keep your on your peds,” Smokescreen replied.

His optics sparkled with mischief and Prowl’s spark surged. He would learn to live a life of idleness. Calling Smokescreen and Bluestreak his would make the boredom bearable. Building a relationship with the Twins would be another boon. Polihex need not be intolerable. He need not be miserable. Surely he could train his processor to quiet in time. In the isolation of his younglinghood, he had imagined one mega-cycle he would have a gaggle of creations to brood over. His ideal sparkmate, he had imagined, would come from a large family, and he would want to create the same. Adulthood had stripped him of this fantasy when he had come to realize that no mech he felt was worthy would want to bond with him, let alone have creations with him.

“That depends on how overbearing you would like me to be.”

Smokescreen laughed, and Prowl smiled. They brushed their crest in a Praxian gesture of affection. Prowl was still learning how be be a procreator, and Smokescreen was still learning how to be loved and cared for. It was funny how love had come before real familiarity. When he looked back on the first dark-cycle he had seen Smokescreen, Prowl had loved the brave, and traumatized mechling. Finding him again, it had been all Prowl could do to wait and see if not only Smokescreen but Bluestreak as well would want to be his charges, his creations. Being loved by them was magic. He hoped it would not diminish, he did not believe it would diminished on his part but there was that self-deprecating voice in the back of his helm questioning his worthiness.

The mechs he had welcomes into his berth had seen him as a willing, even easy frame to relieve their spikes, and to be fair, they had not bee wrong. He had been easy, and he had been willing. A few rare examples had given false promises to ensure they were welcomed in. Prowl had learned, a little painfully, not to believe the lies. It had made the inevitable breakup less surprising, and less painful. The only mechanisms who had ever really enjoyed his presence had been his procreators. He missed them more these last quartexes than he had in some vorns. They would not have sneered when Prowl had declared he was petitioning to adopt two foundling brothers. They would have loved Smokescreen and Bluestreak because Prowl did. They would not have told him he was throwing away his life for gutter trash when he took the peacebond.

“I love you,” Smokescreen said, and he hugged Prowl’s arm and nuzzled his helm against his originator’s shoulder. “I’m so happy I can call you Origin. I want you to be happy.”

“You make me happy, Smokescreen,” Prowl replied. “Being your origin feels akin to a miracle. I am happier now than I have ever been.”

“Even though you aren’t an enforcer anymore?”

“Being an enforcer was not my greatest hope. It was merely the only one I ever managed to accomplish. What I wanted most, Smokescreen, was to have a large, and loud, a joyous family.”

“So didn’t you see a matchmaker and bond? Was it ‘cause of your glitch?”

“That would not have helped but it was because of my procreators, because they broke bonds to be together. My brother and I are technically illegitimate due their relationship. As a result, we’re casteless, and thus unworthy of a matchmaker’s skill.

“That’s scrap.”

“That is the caste system. My procreators had influence due to their careers so Barricade and I lived better lives, and had greater opportunities than most casteless mechlings. I did not truly understand how much that stain could hinder me until after they had died.”

“You could’ve created without a bond, that what my procreators did. That what all the other low caste or casteless did.”

“I would have lost my career, at the very least. Perhaps it might have been worth it if I had met the right mechanism, but I never did find anyone wishing to create with a glitched mech.”

“Bunch of idiots. I guess between me, Blue and then the Twins, we’re pretty loud. I’m trying to be happy.”

“I will be with you every step.”

As much as Prowl’s spark ached for all the pain Smokescreen had endured he was grateful his creation was no long trying to hide his emotions. Prowl knew from experience that burying everything only led to it erupting at a later date, and often at the most inconvenient of times. Of course he was a hypocrite because Prowl continued to press down those unpleasant feelings he could not safely or comfortably articulate. Those emotions he could not process he pushed down too. His emotional intelligence was quite subpar, and more so towards his own emotions than those of others. He tried. He tried to be respectful, and aware of the feelings of those around him. Often times he failed. His patience was finite so far as it came to fools, and his glossa often worked faster than his processor. His originator had called it quite the feat. Camshaft had always said it with fondness.

“Can I help with the dishes?”

“I would appreciate the help.”

Principal Jackpot had arranged for Smokescreen’s immediate enrolment in online learning. This light-cycle Prowl had set up a tablet with the access Smokescreen would need. He had been pleased that his youngling had been all but chomping at the bit to get going. Though his preliminary grades at Obsidian had not been terribly good, his test scores had been excellent. Prowl had suggested Smokescreen needed to be challenged, he could not be bothered with busy work, Prowl had been the same. When his teachers had been either unwilling or unable to challenge him, Prowl had merely not attended those classes. His grades had been excellent in those classes, they had not had the sense to count homework towards the grade, or attendance for that matter, had they he might have been bothered to attend.

Prowl had continued this habit into the Academy. He only appeared in class for those professors who taught directly from the cousebook, and who did not count attendance for a significant part of the grade, on test-cycles. As Smokescreen’s originator, Prowl hoped to make the youngling’s school experience a little more engaging than his had been. But if the vile conduct of these last peers was repeated at Smokescreen’s next school, Prowl would homeschool him. If the Polihexians could not get their creations to behave as respectful mechanisms, Prowl would not expose his to them. He might have been becoming a little overbearing, and overzealous already. There was questing he was brooding over each and every one of the mechlings.

“I like Jazz,” Smokescreen declared as he rinsed the bowl Prowl had used for the cookies. “I want to hate him, and to blame him for everything, but I like him.”

“He truly did not want the bond, Smokescreen. He only remained on the beach after repeating his refusal because he was concerned I was being mistreated.”

“Were you?”

“Crosscut may have been taking out his displeasure towards his heir bonding to Barricade on me. Or he may just be an aft by nature. I cannot claim I helped matters. Pride is most definitely one of my sins.”

“The mech the chose after tried to hurt you.”

“According to Jazz, Road Handler was in love with Free Wheeler. His attempt to kill me was a matter of revenge and perhaps obsession. He bungled his attempt quite thoroughly. I am not helpless, remember that, brightspark. I will not stand haplessly like a sheepacron while a predator bares down on me, or you. I think it offended Jazz that Road Handler would use Free Wheeler’s death as his excuse to do violence. Jazz believes Free Wheeler would have taken the bond, even taken it together with Jazz if they had both been living. He wanted the Twins to live without fear and sickness. It was very much in Free Wheeler’s designation that Jazz ultimately took the peacebond with me.”

“Were you glad he decided to do it?”

“To a point. Jazz had been kinder to me than our own kinsmech. But for his sake, I felt some hesitation. He loved Free Wheeler. I could hear how much in how he spoke of the Twins originator. I knew the bond would pain him. It did. It does. I am grateful, for my own sake, that he made the sacrifice. I am all the more grateful he demanded you and Smokescreen come as well.”

“The Twins think he’s the best ‘genitor ever... He’s been better to Blue and me than our own progenitor was... I guess we could have done worse. Couldn’t we have?”

“I believe so.”

They could have done much worse. The odds any other Polihexian would have not just invited but demanded Smokescreen and Bluestreak be added to the contract were slim. Beyond even that, Jazz had been generous, and kind. He had not often come around to the habsuite he had set up for Prowl and the mechlings up until now. Apart from the mega-cycle where he had introduced the Twins to Smokescreen and Bluestreak, Jazz had largely only come around when there it been a villicus matter he thought Prowl might have insight on. Prowl did not feel like a traitor for sharing his interpretation on various Praxian activities. He was trying to prevent innocent acts by his kinsmech fishermecha from leading to renewed hostilities. Thus far it seemed as if Jazz had been able to see the altercations through Praxian optics, as well as his own. A continued peace would rely quite heavily on this ability being the norm within Jazz’s colleagues because the mechs in power within Praxus were unlike to even try to look for a Polihexian insight. His grandprocreators were amongst those who would decide the future of both Praxus and Polihex, and Prowl did not have much faith in their flexibility.

There had not been many such altercations since Prowl had arrived in Polihex. This was a positive, but selfishly Prowl wished there was more for which Jazz would want his insight. He could be of service, both for Praxus and for Polihex, and it would give his battle computer some much need stimulus. Prowl hesitated to ask for anymore involvement, for fear of raising Jazz’s suspicion in his motives. It was difficult for Prowl to accurately explain how his processor worked, and how it would work regardless of his desires. Most mechanisms could not understand that Prowl could not simply shut off. He could not simply stop. His battle computer continued to operate even as he recharged. The longer it worked without a reset, the more muddled its output became. There were only two things that could reset it, crashes and overloads. The latter was a more preferable method. Prowl found the overloads from interface more satisfying than those from masturbation. Tumbler had called him touch starved. Unfortunately, that observation, spoken with a sneer, had been accurate. The problem with masturbation as a therapy is that the moment Prowl thought of doing it to reset his battle computer, it became a chore instead of a pleasure which only made it more difficult for Prowl to get off. Prowl was most definitely not going to proposition Jazz, however. The cost/benefit analysis suggested the risks far outweighed the potential benefit. As they became more familiar, Prowl would ran the analysis again, but for now he would stick to his own servos.

When the joor came for Prowl to collect the Twins, he left the freshly bakes cookies cooling on the counter, and checked on Smokescreen and Bluestreak one finally time, before he headed out the door. The moment he stepped out the door, Prowl tuned his sensory wings to their highest sensitivity. His helm throbbed almost instantly, but system wide shock from the sudden spike in input faded quickly. Prowl was not uncomfortable making this journey alone. He did not see danger around every corner. It was not necessary for him to keep his doorwings at such a high sensitive in order to navigate the Polihexian underground. At moderate sensitivity Prowl would be able to distinguish his surroundings adequately to make his way around without stumbling over a rock. But tuned as they were, Prowl could differentiate the different types of crystals within the cavern walls, and he could “hear” and “see” the small mechanimals scurrying about the shadows. If ever there was something bigger than a mechanimal, he would “see” it, and thus prepare for the ambush appropriately. He was not afraid of attack so much as prepared for one. Prowl considered this to be an important distinction.

As had become his habit, Prowl hung back as procreators gathered, weighting for the chime that would announce the end of the school-cycle. The Polihexians pointedly ignored him, and Prowl took this to be preferable to disdain, or even curiosity. He cringed at the thought of having to engage in small talk. Given his propensity to bore or to offend his own framekin, Prowl felt it best to just say nothing. He saw servos moving together and recognized it as chirolinguistics. From his angle, he could not understand what was being said. Even if the dialect was the same as the one he had studied, Prowl had never been fluent. In any case, he did not need to know what they were saying. They were entitled to their conversations, and even if they were speaking of him, it hardly matter. He was used to mechanisms speaking behind his back. Such activities had been a popular hobby amongst his classmates and then his fellow enforcers. It had been expected, and it still was, Prowl had always been a strange mech.

The chime sounded and the doors swung open. A familiar pair of mechlings burst through ahead of the crowd. Prowl chuckled under his ventilations. It thrilled him to know they were fond of him. He was fond of them. More than fond, Prowl had loved the pair by their third interaction, not quite the same love at first sight he had felt for Smokescreen and then Bluestreak but close. They were one of the greatest positives to being bonded to Jazz. Though he was continuously tempted to fuss and brood over them as he did Smokescreen and Bluestreak, Prowl restrained himself. To avoid overstepping their boundaries, Prowl brooded over the Twins indirectly. He had plates and cups in their favourite colours in the cupboard, and their favourite craft supplies and toys in the bins, whatever they needed to feel comfortable and welcome in his habsuite. Prowl knew they were fond of him but he was not their originator, Free Wheeler deserved to be acknowledged and remembered.

“Prowl!” Sideswipe shouted his designation as he raised pasted the procreators awaiting their own creation. The sparkling lunged at him and Prowl dropped quickly to catch him as Sideswipe slammed into him and hugged him around his neck. “Ya really came!”

“Of course,” Prowl replied, gently hugging the mechling back. “I have come most mega-cycles.”

“But that was for Blue!”

“It is for all of you,” Prowl promised. It was not a lie. Sideswipe was practically vibrating with excitement as he released Prowl. “Did you have a good mega-cycle?”

“Uh huh! Is Bluestreak feelin’ better?”

“He is. Just in time for the ornend. Sunstreaker? How was your mega-cycle?”

“Good,” Sunstreaker replied. He rummaged through his subspace and pulled out a rolled up piece of canvass, and presented it to Prowl. “I drew ya a picture in art class.”

“Thank you, Sunstreaker. You can help me decide where to put it up.”

Sideswipe grabbed Prowl’s servo without hesitation, ready to. Prowl offered his other servo to Sunstreaker prepared to take the mechling’s rejection with no hurt feelings. To his pleasure, Sunstreaker took his servo. They went on their way. Though Prowl felt the optics of more than one Polihexian procreator on his back, he did not acknowledge their stares. If they had real concerns that he was collecting his step-creations, Prowl was perfectly prepared to answer them. But he suspected the stares were more curiosity, and maybe displeasure. Neither of which was his problem. No one came after them, and Prowl was pleased to be left alone. While Smokescreen was old enough to watch over Bluestreak, and quite experienced at it, Prowl preferred not to overburden his youngling. It was important to him to ensure Smokescreen never viewed Bluestreak as a chore or a duty. He did not want the youngling to come to resent his little brother.

“Are you mechlings hungry?” He asked as they left the schoolyard.

“Yeah!” Sideswipe exclaimed.

“Sideswipe’s always hungry,” Sunstreaker replied.

“There are cookies cooling in the kitchen. They will be just right for eating by the time we get home.

“‘M hungry too!” Sunstreaker exclaimed. “What kind did ya make?”

“Malachite chip.”

“Those are Geni’s favourite,” Sunstreaker said.

“There are plenty enough to share,” Prowl promised. “We will make sure to save some for your progenitor.”

He liked this. Prowl had taken a circuitous route to becoming a procreator, but the results were more than he had imagined. Even when Smokescreen broke his spark, Prowl intense joy for the opportunity to be the one to comfort him. When Bluestreak was feeling sick and miserable, Prowl was thrilled to be the one to fawn all over him. Now he was thrilled for the opportunity to be something to the Twins, a caretaker or a friend. There was no denying that he wanted, and perhaps needed more than this, _this _was a blessing. _This_ had the makings of a better life than he had known in Praxus. It was strange to be so pleased with his lot. Prowl felt no urge to escape, and no urge to shut out his sparkmate and his kin. It was not the life he had carved out for himself, but it could be a good life if Prowl could just wrangle his processor.

“Did your teacher send any work home with you?” He asked.

“Math. Blech,” Sideswipe grumbled.

“Blech,” Sunstreaker agreed.

“Perhaps we could use energon goodies as a study aid.”

“How?” Sideswipe asked.

“We’ll play cards.”

Prowl hardly noticed the mechanisms they passed. Many of his Polihexian neighbours bristled or flinched at the sight of him. It was a fair reaction. At all times, Prowl was aware of them, but as they did not move against him, he never so much as caste his optics in their direction. Better to focus on the Twins, better to keep his optics low. Though he had read multiple books on Polihexian etiquette and traditions much seemed to conflict. Given his history with running afoul of Praxian etiquette, Prowl was wary of offending some random Polihexian by making optic contact at just the wrong moment. It was the exact sort of idiotic scrap he was likely to get into. He did tend to glare when he was deep in thought.

“Mmm,” Sideswipe sighed. “Coookies.”

“Wash up while I make you plates. Bluestreak, wash your servos as well please.”

“‘Kay, Origin.”

Smokescreen did not need to be told to wash. As the sparklings clamoured upstairs, he joined Prowl in the  kitchen and washed his servos in the sink.  He brushed his shoulder against Prowl’s as he passed.  For Smokescreen, touch was therapeutic, more than that, it was needful. When he felt unsteady or in any bereft, he cuddled his brother, the curled into Prowl’s side. There was always a shy question in his field, asking for permission. Prowl always granted it to him; he was always willing to give Smokescreen the comfort and reassurances he was reaching for.  It was a comfort to Prowl that he could be this for Smokescreen. It seemed to be all he was capable of doing or being for his creation. None of his degrees, none of his experience with the enforcers had given him insight into  Polihex’s disjointed Codex. He had studied the law code for joors, and had not found any amendment he might hold up in Enforcer Checkpoint’s face. In a faint hope, Prowl had begun searching case law in public record. It was a slow and slogging search, and probably a hopeless one, but he had to search because if he did not than Prowl had to admit that he was impotent and helpless.

“Do you want pressed energon, Origin?” Smokescreen asked, and Prowl escaped the bitter musing of his processor.

“I had best have some med-grade lest anyone tell Medic Ratchet I have not been complying with his wishes when he returns.”

“I’ll pour it.”

“Thank you, Smokescreen. Have you minded the Twins coming over so much lately?”

“No. I like them. I always liked being around the bitties. It’s fun teaches them tricks.”

“I am glad.”

“You like it when they’re here. Even when we get loud... It’s the family that you wanted.”

“You are the family that I wanted. You, Bluestreak, and yes, the Twins.”

“You don’t care they don’t call you Origin?”

“Calling me by my designation is not a slight. I am so honoured you want to call me Origin. But if you had chosen instead to forever call me Prowl? It would not have changed how much I love you.”

“I love you too... And I like having three crazy bitty brothers.”

P rowl was thrilled to hear Smokescreen’s confession. He brushed his crest against his creation’s and  pulled out the mechlings’ special plates. It had been Sideswipe who had insisted everyone needed their own plates. For good measure, Prowl had also purchased cubes to match. Sunstreaker’s yellow was a very precious shade. That sunshine yellow was both his favourite colour, and the only shade of yellow he like. For his part, Sideswipe was less particular about his shade of red, so his twin was on his behalf. The yellow plate and cube matched Sunstreaker’s paint perfectly, and the red matched Sideswipe.  Smokescreen had not been particular about his colour, Sunstreaker had selected a blue to match his plating. Bluestreak had been particular. He had chosen black, had in fact insisted on it when his brother(s) questioned it. If ever he changed his processor and wished for a brighter colour, Prowl would buy new plates and cubes. For the time being, Bluestreak’s dishes were black.

As the mechlings barrelled into the kitchen, Prowl put their plates, with two cookies a piece, on the small kitchen table.  Smokescreen put a cube of sparkling-grade next to their plates. For himself he poured mid-grade. Next to Prowl’s plate he place a cube of med-grade. It was not the foulest med-grade Prowl had ever consumed. To be completely fair it was an improvement from the low-grade he had often depended on to carry him through the mega-cycles back home. His distaste for the med-grade was illogical,  borne from his displeasure at falling under a medic’s care due to his glitch, yet again. He would drink it, however. Not merely because he wanted to set an example for his creations, but because he did want the damage done from this quasi-episode to be repaired. His dislike of medics was not so strong that he was inclined to be self-destructive.

“Why do you have med-grade?” Sunstreaker asked. He was observant, even if he seemed to keep many of his observations to himself.

“I had some trouble with my glitch last dark-cycle,” Prowl explained. Bluestreak was watching him. His youngest’s doorwings flicked up with anxiety. “A medic designated Ratchet made certain I was alright, and prescribed med-grade to help my self-repair systems. I am fine.”

“Did he hit you with a wrench?” Sidswipe asked.

“Why would he hit me with a wrench?” Prowl asked, feeling alarmed. What sort of maniac had he allowed into his helm.

“He threatened Geni wit one... Twice!” Sideswipe explained. “‘Cause he wasn’t listenin’ to medic’s orders.”

“I will be certain to listen to his orders... Eat your snack, then you can play a little before we tend to your homework.”

Prowl wondered how Jazz had become so ill or hurt. At some point he might ask. He did not really understand what the duties of a villicus were. They seem like enforcers, to a point, and yet Polihex had enforcers. Perhaps they were a special division, or an investigatory arm of the shoal’s governing council. This was probably something he should know. Why did the thought of asking make Prowl hesitate?  There had to be a great many things that Jazz in particular or Polihex in general would want to keep from him. The peacebond had only occurred quartexes ago, Prowl was very much an enemy hostage, at least in practical terms.  While Jazz seemed confident that Prowl was what he was, a peacebond, others likely wondered if he was a spy. No one save Jazz had known his spark so they could not be expected to trust his motives for volunteering himself for this fate. Someone was surely watching, perhaps even Jazz’s procreators.  It did not trouble Prowl overmuch, he was a Praxian living in a Polihexian shoal. Many, if not most, of the Polihexian residents would be watching him, and waiting for him to make a mistake.

Sideswipe nibbled at his cookie. Prowl wondered if perhaps he did not care for them but then he saw the mischief in the mechlings optics. The longer the snack took, the longer he escape the dreaded math homework. He was a clever little mechling. One that might have been predisposed to use his wits for evil, or at least mayhem, but clever all the same. Only because it was the ornend did Prowl indulge the imp.  At their age, homework would be no more than a half joor’s worth, hardly a considerable length of time. Though when math was involved, the Twins seemed to both feel like it was an eternity.  Smokescreen had shown math homework no greater enthusiasm, in fact he had generally not done any worksheets outside of what he completed in class. Prowl and he had butted helms over it, but Smokescreen was a great deal like his adoptive originator in one regard, he was loathe to do work for works sake. Smokescreen did not need to do homework to understand math. He was vorns ahead of his peers on this subject. A natural affinity for numbers had been honed on the streets where Smokescreen had gambled with more affluent younglings, and run small scams. Desperation had been a good teacher.

“You have a joor to play,” Prowl declared when the mechlings had finally licked their plates clean. “Do not ask for five more kliks when I say it is time to work.”

“Yes sir,” the Twins replied. They had played that game already. Prowl did not indulge it.

Tear ‘n Chase proved to be the game of choice. Smokescreen was assigned the role of chaser, as he generally was. Sunstreaker was the best at hiding, and Bluestreak the worst. The doorwings were something of a foil, but he was getting better. Sideswipe loved the tear part of Tear ‘n Chase and he tended to give himself away as he vibrated with anticipation. Prowl left the mechlings to their fun and tidy up after the snack. Dinner was his responsibility this cycle. It was not a chore he was especially enthused over but he was capable of preparing a few reasonably decent meals. Soup was on the offer this cycle. Some mega-cycle he might try making the noodles from scratch but at the moment he had a jar of dried energon noodles that would suit his purposes.

Every time he opened the pantry door Prowl felt taken aback. There was no danger of running short on fuel. There was no need to ration even a bite. He did not know how Polihex had avoided the famine gripping Praxus, but with mermechs as a portion of their population he supposed they knew were to find the sea-mechanimals they hunted. Their trade with Kalis and Uraya had not halted either. Praxus had been forced to pay restitution to those principalities after bombing them for “collaborating” with Polihex. Given these provinces w ere the Crystal Empire’s puppets, it had been a stupid action. But it had brought about the beginning of the end for Praxus’ war on Polihex. It had become to costly to continue.

T he noodles would cook later. For the time being, Prowl ready the broth. Oil and ore simmered as Prowl cut up an oxide shark filet and added it to the simmering broth. Most of the fuel here not mined or imported from the other Torus States came from sea life. It was familiar. Such fuel had been the stable of the Praxian diet for a very long time. The sudden die off of sea-mechanimal along the Praxian cost had been devastating to both the economy, and the health of the population. Their government had blamed the Polihexian, thus gaining the necessary support to launch a war. In reality it was Praxus’ industrial centre which had caused the die of. When Praxus had already invested itself in the war, the pollutants that had killed their fishery had poisoned the soil, and the very crystals Praxian had long depended on for trade, and had come to depend upon for sustenance had died off too. The voices raising the alarm had been silenced time and again. Now it would be decavorns at least before the soil could bare life again. The sea would take longer to recover, if it ever did. Until then, Praxus was starving, and here Prowl was in Polihex, his pantry full. Guilt was illogical, but he felt it all the same.  He left the soup to simmer.

“Alright, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker. It is time for your homework. Bluestreak, pick a book to read. Smokescreen, you can work on one of your course packs.”

Like prisoners being brought for execution the Twins trudged into the dining room and pulled out their homework. Prowl did not question it when Smokescreen pulled out the music theory book Jazz had given him and brought it to the table. Not inclined to sit alone, Bluestreak brought his book to the table. They all sat around together. As he had promised, Prowl brought a couple of jars of goodies to the table to serve as a visual study guide for the Twins. They eyed the jars with curiosity and gluttony. When work was done they would be allowed to make a selection, but they would have to weight to indulge in the sweet fuel until after dinner. Prowl sat with the Twins, knowing Bluestreak and Smokescreen had no need of him, and looked over their home. It was arithmetic, as he had expected.  They were working on a mixture of addition and subtraction. Of course he could do the math in his helm with ease, he was a grown mech, the Twins had to think, they were only mechlings. 

“Be careful, Sunstreaker. You want to add not subtract there.”

“Oh! Thanks Prowl!”

They were perfectly clever mechlings. The math drills were boring to them but they worked their way though it. He never gave them the answers, that defeated the purpose of homework. These sheets their teacher gave them were to help them master basic arithmetic so they could move on to multiplication and division. Math had always been easy for him, and Prowl had even liked it as a mechling. In this math there were clear, right or wrong answers and he had been comfortable in the certainty of it. Grammar had been his most loathed subject. There had been too many rules, and too many exceptions. Eventually, through repetition he had learned to write correctly but he did not write well. He was brief. He was exact.

“How are we usin’ the goodies?” Sideswipe asked after he filled out his last answer.

“We are going to play a game called Twenty-One,” Prowl explained, Smokescreen cocked his helm in their direction. “Would you like to be dealer, Smokescreen?”

“Sure.”

“The idea, brightsparks is that each of these cards has a value. This card, Prima, can be both one or eleven. The face cards, each represents a member of the Guiding Hand, count for ten. Whoever gets closest to twenty-one without going over wins. We each get a bowl of goodies, and we’re going to bet with them.”

He had no idea if Jazz approved or disapproved of gambling, but it was an effective study aid. Prowl was prepared to make his case if need be. Bluestreak sat next to Smokescreen, calling himself the Dealer’s Assistant. The Twins were competitive and they filled their bowls with goodies and wriggled in their chairs, ready to earn more.  Smokescreen took it easy on them as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe got used to the cards and their values. Very quickly each mechling showed a unique side. Sunstreaker was more cautious, “standing” and holding his cards if another was likely to push him over twenty-one, and Sideswipe almost always asked for another “hit”. He also bet high, where Sunstreaker did not risk his treats too carelessly. There was a certain degree of luck to the game, and some of Sideswipe’s big bets paid dividends. As the Twins became more competitive, with each other and with Smokescreen, the youngling gave them a wicked smile and played his role with a new flourish.

“‘M back,” Jazz called as he walked through the door.

“Score!” Sideswipe squealed as Smokescreen dealt him Prima and Mortilus giving him Twenty-One, an automatic win for that hand. The mechling had gone all in, betting every goodie he had lived. Now he had doubled that number. He carefully counted them out. Prowl looked over his helm at Smokescreen, and dipped his doorwings as a smile reached his optics. He had seen the way Smokescreen’s digits had passed over the deck. He had known exactly which cards he had been dealing Sideswipe.

“Geni!” Sunstreaker exclaimed. “Y’re in time for dinner!”

“Whatcha playin’ sweetsparks?” Jazz asked.

“Twenty-One! We’re doin’ math!”

“I think this is the most excited I ever seen ya to do yer math homework.”

“Put your goodies away into these jars,” Prowl ordered. “Your progenitor can ration them for you.”

“How’d ya make out, my lil terrors?”

“I bet e’erythin’ ‘n I won all o’ this!” Sideswipe held up his jar.

“I got the same! ‘N I didn’t almost lose’em all!” Sunstreaker replied.

“How’d the House do?” Jazz asked as he looked over at Smokescreen.

“The House always wins,” Smokescreen replied.

“Clean up, mechlings," Prowl said. "Your progenitor had excellent timing. The soup is ready.”

Smokecreen herded his brothers upstairs. Jazz followed Prowl into the kitchen. The proximity made Prowl’s plating almost stand on end. Might it have been the bond, or genuine attraction? Prowl knew his battle computer would consider the question at length later, regardless as to whether or not Prowl wanted to think about it.  He returned to the stove and added the noodles to the broth. They would cook before the mechlings finished cleaning up. Behind him, Jazz gathered bowls and utensils, and set the table. As the noodles softened, Prowl poured the soup into a serving dish and brought it to the table. Dinner as a family was very much still a novelty to him. At some point it was bound to lose its lustre and perhaps then he would allow the mechlings to fuel as they watched cartoons. For the moment, Prowl embraced the novelty. The crystal arrangement someone had brought over the dark-cycle before looked pretty on the table. He should have asked who had brought them, he had never offered his thanks.

“I hope your meeting went well,” Prowl said as they waiting for the mechlings to join them.”

“It was interestin’. Ori’s steppin’ down as Chief Villicus. He got us through the war, now he wants to take a step back. I figure he’ll be busy helpin’ Geni as he steps up as chieftain.”

“How will a replacement be selected?”

“Already done. That’s why Ori called everyone in from all ‘round Polihex. First ‘round was nominations, than votin’. It’s gonna be me.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank ya. Not sure how I feel ‘bout it. ‘N it wasn’t unanimous so there’s gonna be slag to deal wit but. It’s done for now.”

“If you which to celebrate, I apparently made your favourite. Malachite chip cookies.”

“Those are my favourite. Were the Twins good for ya?”

“They were. It remains a novelty to them to come here. They are always well behaved.”

“Then they're still settlin' in wit ya. Y'll know they've taken ya for their own when they start pullin' tricks on ya. Especially Sides. It's his love language. They were excited to come o'er. They like it here. They like ya.”

“I like them.”

“Who do ya like?” Sideswipe asked as he slipped up on the adults.

“You, brightspark,” Prowl replied. Sideswipe grinned at him and gave him a quick hug. Jazz was watching. Prowl thought he was pleased, and yet there was a pang in his spark. Surely, he was not annoyed but perhaps Jazz was grieving.

“Prowl likes me,” Sideswipe told his twin.

“I like Sunstreaker as well,” Prowl said. Jazz chuckled, the pang was gone. “You should show your progenitor your drawing.”

“Ya got to have art class, did ya Sunny?” Jazz asked.

“Uh huh,” Sunstreaker said. “I made Prowl a picture. I hung it up in the livingroom. Prowl said we can cover the whole wall with pictures.”

“That’s a beautiful idea.”

Prowl did not preen. In fact, he put some effort into keeping the flush of pleasure at the comment from reaching the bond. He was becoming for conscious of the bond, of what he, but also Jazz was sharing. Being an open book was an unpalatable idea. From his earliest memories, Prowl had always been a mech that kept his own counsel. The reality was he did not know how to be open. There was a vulnerability to it he was not keen on. Jazz had not taken advantage of his unconscious insights, but Prowl was a little uneasy. In these last quartexes, Prowl had not really recognized the little glimpses Jazz had consciously or unconsciously shared. And in these last quartexes, Prowl was certain he had shared more with Jazz than he would ever have intended. Though Jazz had never questioned any of it, that was almost more unnerving. Prowl might never know what Jazz already knew of him. It put Jazz at an advantage.

“Well, Blue, y’re lookin’ better,” Jazz declared as the mechling and his brother joined them at the table.

“I’m feeling good,” Bluestreak said. “I’m not wheezing anymore.”

“Your originator’s tisane appears to have worked its magic,” Prowl said, and he served the soup.

“Or it’s run it’s course. Either way. If Blue’s still feelin’ aight on Novem-Cycle, I thought we cook book a pool at the baths. ‘Bout time to get yer finishes done, ain’t it?”

“I suppose you are correct. Though I have looked worse.”

“Ya look fine!” Jazz quickly backed track and Prowl flit a his doorwings. He was not offended. His finish was looking especially dull, but he had indeed looked considerably worse, many times over. “I just thought ya might like to relax…”

“No. He’s looked worse,” Smokescreen said. “Reporters slagged him all the time for not lookin’ the part o’ Praefectus.”

“I have had a tendency to be distracted by anything and everything and paying utterly no mind to my appearance,” Prowl explained. “When I was a detective the media thought it was endearing, a sign of my devotion to my work. When I moved into command it was no longer seen as endearing.”

“He had patches when he was giving that big speech,” Smokescreen revealed. Prowl looked to his creation. Smokescreen had paid. “When he saw me, and saved me. Most of the news stories had more to say about his patches than his speech, or the fact that he jumped off stage mid sentence and arrested me.”

“Praxus had developed a tendency to focus on the veneer rather than the substance in recent vorns,” Prowl said. Aesthetic had long been an integral part of Praxian culture, but it not always been the singular focus. As Praxus had begun to flag in technological development, as their economy had fallen into a steep depression the appearance of prosperity had become so terribly important. It had never made any sense to Prowl. How could anything ever get better if the paint of the facade of the empire was more important than the struts?

“Did ya collect every article they ever wrote on Prowl?” Jazz asked. Prowl frowned. Smokescreen raised his chin up and his doorwings fanned out.

“Yup!”

“Oh!” Prowl did not like how his voice squeaked with surprise. He had guessed. He had never thought.

“Ya got’em wit ya, I hope.”

“Uh huh. I always keep them with me. I don’t want to lose them.”

“We should make ya a keepsake box, ‘n put some back up copies there so ya can’t ever really lose’em.”

“I’d like that.”

“I had no idea you had such a collection,” Prowl said, once he recovered his glyphs.

“Everyone forgot what an amazing enforcer you were. I never wanted to forget. I’m proud of you. I’m proud you wanted me, and Blue to be your creations.”

“I am proud to be your originator.”

“Can we see?” Sideswipe asked? “Are there lots?”

“Uh h’uh,” Smokescreen replied. “Origin has the highest solve and conviction rate of any metaforensic detective in Praxian history. He caught some of the worst criminals in our history.”

“Cool!” Sideswipe exclaimed. “How’d ya do it Prowl?”

“A great deal of work,” Prowl replied, softly. “A great deal of paperwork, and a great deal of patience. Investigations often take a very long time.”

“Did ya ever get into chases?” Sunstreaker asked.

“A few. Mostly my focus was on metaforensics. I came in after the excitement was over to find out how and why something happened, who might have done the crime, and then to build the case against them.”

“What was the biggest case ya ever solved?”

“Well,” Prowl looked to Smokescreen. “There was a clever pickpocket working the crowd at one of my address after I had become Praefectus Vigilum. I stopped mid speech to arrest him.”

“A pickpocket? That’s boring!” Sunstreaker scowled. “Why’s that so special?”

“Because he is now your brother.”

“Smokey!” The Twins exclaimed in unison.

“Mhm. Origin saved me from the streets. He brought me and Blue back together and didn’t let anyone separate us again. He’s the best enforcer there ever was.”

“Woah!”

P rowl did not know quite what to think. As soon as the sparklings were finished their dinner they were hounding Smokescreen to bring out his collection. Feeling oddly self-conscious, Prowl cleared the table, and ducked into the kitchen.  It had not been a lie. No investigation mattered more to him in hindsight than that moment in the square.  Moving onto the command track had been a mistake. He had realized this not so long ago. It had been  his  thought that he could reform metaforensics from above,  where he had failed from below. The reality had been different. So much of his time  had  become tied up in politics, and theater, facets that Prowl had been singularly terrible at. Even the basic administration of Enforcer Command had become the purview of his underlings. 

His attention had been expected to focus on “more important” duties.  Prowl had hated those duties, hated his function, but there had been no way to back track, no way to return to metaforensics.  Reuniting with  the mechling he had held during one of his darkest time periods, discovering the horrific crimes  Smokescreen had been subjected to, had given Prowl back the zeal for his function, and just a little appreciation for the use of the authority the rank of Praefectus Vigilum had given him. He had used ever bit of it to force the case through court. Those that had stood in his way, whom he had seemly bowled over, had been claiming to have been his biggest supporters by the end. But that appeared to be the nature of politics.

“Why are ya embarrassed?” Jazz asked as he slipped into the kitchen. Prowl dipped his doorwings a degree. It should not have surprised him that Jazz had noticed. Or that he would ask.

“I do not consider my life or my service remarkable.”

“Ya solved more cases than any other enforcer. In Praxus’ history. How’s that not remarkable?”

“I did not accomplish what I had enlisted to.”

“How do ya figure that?”

“I became an enforcer because I wanted to fix my society. It was wholly arrogant of me to think I could, as though one enforcer could even begin to address the corruption within Praxian law enforcement, or do anything to address the systemic injustice and poverty within our society as a whole. But I was young and arrogant. Now I am older, and just as arrogant. I hate failing. When it became clear that it was a battle I had no hope to win within metaforensics, I moved into internal investigations, and from there up the ranks. I fought viciously to become Praefectus Vigilum. I thought from there I could make the enforcers what I believed they should be. But my attempts to make my reforms were almost constantly hampered. Politicians and businessmechs always wanted their say. Politics... I have no patience for the games and the posturing. I was terrible at managing their interference. I really was not fit for the job.”

“Ya don’t suffer fools,” Jazz said. The observations was spoken with surprising fondness, and Prowl turned away to return to his washing, hiding his smile.

“I do not suffer anyone,” he replied once he trusted his tone.

“Ya suffer me. Ya suffer the Twins. Ya can’t tell me they don’t drive ya mad sometimes. It’s the greatest talent.”

“It is not suffering to contend with growing mechlings,” Prowl thought better of acknowledging Jazz’s self-description. “Some mayhem is to be expected, even some grief. It is all part of normal development.”

“How is it ya don’t got a dozen creations?” Jazz asked. Prowl’s doorwings drooped and he turned to face his sparkmate. He had no expected this turn in the conversation. It took all of his willpower and pride to stamp out the old grief before it touched the bond. “Ya got such a way wit’em. Ya a love’em so.”

“I was unworthy of the attention of matchmakers,” Prowl explained, his tone utterly flat as he used his ATS to mute his emotional cortex. It made the conversation less unpleasant. “Thus bonding and creations were impossible unless I wished to completely destroy my life.”

“‘Cause o’ yer glitch?”

“No. My procreators. Sidesways only bonded to Barricade because having known illegitimate creations at his rank is socially unacceptable, and Barricade made it very publicly known. I have my suspicions that Barricade’s carrying was no accident, but a tactical move. I hope he is happy in the end, though I do not imagine it will be what he hoped it would be.”

“I realize y’re procreators ran off together, but was that really enough to ice ya ‘n yer brother outta society?”

“Our procreators broke bonds and contracts to be with each other. That decision had ramifications that will follow the sparkline for generations. Barricade and I are undesirable due to being the creations of bond-breakers. We are more disreputable than even the illegtimate. It will be difficult for Barricade to find a match for his creation. The matchmakers have long memories.”

“Your brother ‘n ya are disreputable because yer procreators bonded for love?”

“Love is not the ultimate wisdom.”

“Do ya believe that?” Jazz asked, not sharply but… there was something in his tone. Disbelief?

“It is a Praxian proverb… I do not ultimately believe it. My procreators had a better match than any other I ever saw. They were meant to be two halves of a whole.”

“Ya wanted what they had.”

“I did,” Prowl saw no purpose in lying. His sparkmate was a singularly observant mech. “I was naive.”

“Naive?”

“I had no trouble finding lovers. But lovers only. The idea of bonding to me, let alone creating with me was laughable.”

“Who laughed?” Jazz asked, no demanded. Prowl frowned.

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I’d like to break his face.”

“Violence is not called for.”

“On the contrary. I think this is exactly the sorta thing that calls for a broken olfactory ridge.”

“His designation is Tumbler. He was my partner in metaforensics for a time. My partner in other ways as well. He laughed… He found the idea of me creating to be hilarious. When I did not share his humour, he was affronted.”

“He got mad at ya for bein’ hurt that he laughed at ya for wantin’ bitties?” Jazz asked.

“He suggested I was too smart to be so stupid. In his glyphs, no sparkling deserved to be stuck with me as their originator.”

“He definitely deserves to have his faceplates rearranged.”

“Glyphs do not call for physical retaliation.”

“Those glyphs still hurt ya,” Jazz declared, and he took Prowl’s servo. Held it. It felt like a promise. “He deserves a bit o’ pain.”

Prowl did not get the opportunity to respond. The chime at the door sounded. From the livingroom, Smokescreen announced that he would get it. Still, Prowl was in motion. There was no reason for anyone to come. True, it could be Jazz’s procreators. They might have been inclined to check in, but Prowl’s plating stood on end, and his fuel tank clenched with the unconscious expectation of a fight. Smokescreen had the door open before Prowl reached him. His youngling made a sound and backed up. He backed up so quickly, that he back right into Prowl. The enforcer in the doorway was shorter than Smokescreen by a quarter of a meter. But the insignia he wore was enough to terrify Smokescreen. His whole frame vibrating with fear, Smokescreen reached back and pulled Prowl’s arms around him. Prowl held his creation tightly and fanned his doorwings forward.

“I ‘spose ya must be Smokescreen,” the mech had a similar frametype to Jazz, but his yellow faceplates and red visor set him apart. As did the kibble on his back. It almost looked like protowings. “‘N y’ll be Prowl.”

“Staff Sergeant,” Jazz voice called from Prowl’s back. His tone was different, not nearly so friendly as Prowl had become used to. As Jazz stepped up beside them, his servo rested low on Prowl’s back. And stayed there. “What’cha need, Kick-Off?”


End file.
